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BUCKTHORNE AND THE HOPKEI 


TALES OF A TRAVELLER, 


Hh Bly ny 


A f 4099 


yp 


¥ maleate a ." 
UNIVERSITY OF IL! INOIS. 
BY 


GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. 


AUTHOR OF “THE SKETCH BOOK,” “BRACEBRIDGE HALL,” “KNICKERBOCKERS NEW 
YORK,” ETC. 


Jam neither your minotaure, nor your eentaure, nor your satyr nor your hyena, nor your bablon, 


but your meer traveller, believe me. 
BEN JONSON. 


AUTHOR’S REVISED EDITION. 


COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME. 


NEW YORK: 
G. P. PUTNAM, 441 BROADWAY. 
1864. 


ENTERED, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1849, by 
Wasuineton Irvine, 
in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court for the Southern District of New York. 


JOHN F. TROW, 
PRINTER, STEREOTYPER, AND ELECTROTYPER, 
46,48 & 50 Greene Street, 
New York. 


= 
IS6Y 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


TO THE TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


BucKTHORNE AND TUE SHOPKEEPER’S DAUGHTER, = - DARLEY, . Front. 
Tur Botp DraGcoon, : A 2 A “ Do. ~ Title: 


VIGNETTES IN THE TEXT. 


PAGE 
To THe READER, phe eer Cee ee Se ee teen, * “SS OSIERRION, vii 
View or MAYENCE, . c - : ~ : 2 : Do. A xi 
Tue LITTLE ANTIQUARY, . - E > . ; - DARLEY, . xii 
SNUFFERS, . 6 : - - 2 x A . ° - HERRICK, . 88 
Tue GUILLOTINE, , : : - : ry - )) DARLEY, 56 
THe GENTLEMAN IN GREEN, . ° 4 - : : - Do. ~ 163 
ENTANGLEMENT, . Es ; A ; * : « Herrick, - 236 
THe INN aTTERRACINA, - : ‘ : Pe ar Do. 820 
MISADVENTURE OF THE Popxins Famity, . . . . DARLEY, : 827 
Tue Patnrer’s ADVENTURE, . - : 2 A ° - Do. A 338 
Tnr ENGLIsHMAN’s ADVENTURE, . ‘ P : A 4 Do. : 876 
Tue Money DicceErs, tl SEP ee cme ot Saar Do. 477 


822749 


PART AL 


STRANGE STORIES BY A NERVOUS GENTLEMAN. 


THE GREAT UNKNOWN, . ‘ ‘ : : 
THE Hunting Dinner, ; ; ; 
THe ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE, . : ; ‘ 
Tue ADVENTURE OF MY AUNT, ; : : 
THE Botp DraGoon, oR THE ADVENTURE OF MY GRANDFATHER, 
pxTue ADVENTURE OF THE GERMAN STUDENT, . * : 
Tut ADVENTURE OF THE MysTERIOoUS PICTURE, . ‘ 
Tue ADVENTURE OF THE MysTERIous STRANGER, ; ; 


Tue Story oF THE YounG ITALIAN, ; . 


PART IT, 


BUCKTHORNE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
LireraAry LIFF, : : : ‘ , 
A Lirerary DINNER, ; | / : ‘ 
Tue CLUB oF QuEER FELLOWS, . - = 
Tue Poor Devin AvrHor, . ; : ; 
Notoriety, ; ; ; ‘ : ; 
A PracticAL PHILOSOPHER, . : : i 
BuckTHORNE, OR THE YouNG MAN oF GREAT EXPECTATIONS, . 
GRAVE REFLECTIONS OF A DISAPPOINTED MAN, . : 
Tue Boosy Squire, , . ; - : 


Tue STROLLING MANAGER, . , 4 ; 


123 
126 
131 
139 
164 
167 
170 
237 
244 
251 


6 CONTENTS. 


PART III. 
THE ITALIAN BANDITTI. 

PAGE 
THe Inn aT TERRACINA, . , * J 2278 
THE ADVENTURE OF THE LITTLE ANTIQUARY, : ° 289 
Tue BEeLaTeD TRAVELLERS, ; ‘ : - 800 
THE ADVENTURE OF THE Popkus FamI_y, ‘ : 821 
THE ParnTEr’s ADVENTURE, ; : : . 828 
THE Story oF THE BANDIT CHIEFTAIN, ; ' 339 
THe Story or THE YounG Rosser, : . . 854 
THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENGLISHMAN, . , : 369 

PART IV. 

THE MONEY-DIGGERS, 

He..t-GaTr, . ‘ : : : . 879 
Kipp THE Pirate, . : , P : 883 
Tue Devit anp Tom WALKER, . : f . $91 
Wo.tFerT WEBBER, OR GOLDEN DREAMS, . : _ 410 


Tue ADVENTURE OF THE BLACK FISHERMAN, 5 . 4389 


es 


ORTHY anp Dear Reapver!—Hast thou ever 
\ been waylaid in the midst of a pleasant tour by 
some treacherous malady : thy heels tripped up, and thou 
left to count the tedious minutes as they passed, in the 
solitude of an inn chamber? If thou hast, thou wilt be 
able to pity me. Behold me, interrupted in the course 
of my journeying up the fair banks of the Rhine, and 
laid up by indisposition in this old frontier town of 
Mentz. I have worn out every source of amusement. 
I know the sound of every clock that strikes, and bell 
that rings, in the place. I know to a second when to 
listen for the first tap of the Prussian drum, as it sum- 
mons the garrison to parade, or at what hour to expect 
the distant sound of the Austrian military band. All 
these have grown wearisome to me; and even the well- 
known step of my doctor, as he slowly paces the corridor, 
with healing in the creak of his shoes, no longer affords 
an agreeable interruption to the monotony of my apart- 
ment. : 


Vili TO THE READER. 


For a time I attempted to heguile the weary hours, 
by studying German under the tuition of mine host’s 
pretty little daughter, Katrine; but I soon found even 
German had not power to charm a languid ear, and that 
the conjugating of ich Liebe might be powerless, however 
rosy the lips which uttered it. 

I tried to read, but my mind would not fix itself. I 
turned over volume after volume, but threw them by 
with distaste: ‘ Well, then,” said I at length, in de- 
spair, “if I cannot read a book, I will write one.” 
Never was there a more lucky idea; it at once gave 
me occupation and amusement. The writing of a book 
was considered in old times as an enterprise of toil and 
difficulty, insomuch that the most trifling lucubration 
was denominated a “ work,” and the world talked with 
awe and reverence of “the labors of the learned.” 
-—These matters are better understood nowadays. 

Thanks to the improvements in all kind of manufac- 
tures, the art of book-making has been made familiar 
to the meanest capacity. Everybody is an author. 
The scribbling of a quarto is the mere pastime of the 
idle; the young gentleman throws off his brace of duo- 
decimos in the intervals of the sporting season, and the 
young lady produces her set of volumes with the same 
facility that her great-grandmother worked a set of 
chair-bottoms. 

The idea having struck me, therefore, to write a 
book, the reader will easily perceive that the execution 


TO THE READER. ix 


of it was no difficult matter. Irummaged my portfolio, 
and cast about, in my recollection, for those floating 
materials which a man naturally collects in travelling ; 
and here I have arranged them in this little work. 

As I know this to be a story-telling and a story- 
reading age, and that the world is fond of being taught 
by apologue, I have digested the instruction I would 
convey into a number of tales. They may not possess 
the power of amusement, which the tales told by many 
of my contemporaries possess ; but then I value myself 
on the sound moral which each of them contains. This 
may not be apparent at first, but the reader will be 
sure to findit out intheend. lam for curing the world 
by gentle alteratives, not by violent doses ; indeed, the 
patient should never be conscious that he is taking a 
dose. I have learnt this much from experience under 
the hands of the worthy Hippocrates of Mentz. 

I am not, therefore, for those barefaced tales which 
carry their moral on the surface, staring one in the face ; 
they are enough to deter the squeamish reader. On 
the contrary, I have often hid my moral from sight, and 
disguised it as much as possible by sweets and spices, 
so that while the simple reader is listening with open 
mouth to a ghost or a love story, he may have a bolus 
of sound morality popped down his throat, and be never 
the wiser for the fraud. 

As the public is apt to be curious about the sources 
whence an author draws his stories, doubtless that it 

1* 


x - TO THE READER. 


may know how far to put faith in them, I would ob- 
serve, that the Adventure of the German Student, or 
rather the latter part of it, is founded on an anecdote 
related to me as existing somewhere in French; and, 
indeed, I have been told, since writing it, that an 
ingenious tale has been founded on it by an English 
writer ; but I have never met with either the former 
or the latter in print. Some of the circumstances in the 
Adventure of the Mysterious Picture, and in the Story of 
the Young Italian, are vague recollections of anecdotes 
related to me some years since; but from what source 
derived, I do not know. The Adventure of the Young 
Painter among the banditti is taken almost entirely 
from an authentic narrative in manuscript. 

As to the other tales contained in this work, and 
indeed to my tales generally, I can make but one ob- 
servation; I aman old traveller; I have read somewhat, 
heard and seen more, and dreamt more than all. My 
brain is filled, therefore, with all kinds of odds and 
ends. In travelling, these heterogeneous matters have 
become shaken up in my mind, as the articles are apt 
to be in an ill-packed travelling trunk ; so that when I 
attempt to draw forth a fact, I cannot determine whether 
I have read, heard, or dreamt it; and I am always 
at a loss to know how much to believe of my own 
stories. 

These matters being premised, fall to, worthy reader, 
with good appetite ; and, above all, with good hamor, 


TO THE READER. X1 


to what is here set before thee. If the tales I have 
furnished should prove to be bad, they will at least be 
found short; so that no one will be wearied long on 
the same theme. “ Variety is charming,” as some poet 
observes. 

There is a certain relief in change, even though it be 
from bad to worse! As I have often found in travel- 
ling in a stage-coach, that it is often a comfort to shift 
one’s position, and be bruised in a new place. 


Ever thine, 
GEOFFREY CRAYON. 


Dated from the HoTEL DE DARMSTADT, 
ci-devant Hore. DE Paris, 
MernvTz, otherwise called MAYENCE. / 


. 
; 


PAR DL EFLIRST. 


STRANGE STORIES 


BY 


A NERVOUS GENTLEMAN. 


I'll tell you more, there was a fish taken, 
A monstrous fish, with a sword by’s side, a long sword, 
A pike in’s neck, and a gun in’s nose, a huge gun, 
And letters of mart in’s mouth from the Duke of Florence. 
Cleanthes.—This is a monstrous lie. 
Tony.— I do confess it. 
Do you think I'd tell you truths ? 
Fietouer’s Wife for a Month, 


THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 


HE following adventures were related to me by the same 
nervous gentleman who told me the romantic tale of the 
Stout Gentleman, published in Bracebridge Hall. It is very 
singular, that although I expressly stated that story to have 
been told to me, and described the very person who told it, 
still it has been received as an adventure that happened to 
myself. Now I protest I never met with any adventure of 
the kind. I should not have grieved at this, had it not been 
intimated by the author of Waverley, in an introduction to 
his novel of Peveril of the Peak, that he was himself the stout 
gentleman alluded to. I have ever since been importuned by 
questions and letters from gentlemen, and particularly from 
ladies without number, touching what I had seen of the Great 
Unknown. . 

Now all this is extremely tantalizing. It is like being 
congratulated on the high prize when one has drawn a blank ; 
for I have just as great a desire as any one of the public to 
penetrate the mystery of that very singular personage, whose 
voice fills every corner of the world, without any one being 
able to tell whence it comes. 

My friend, the nervous gentleman, also, who is a man of 
very shy, retired habits, complains that he has been exces- 


16 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


sively annoyed in consequence of its getting about in his 
neighborhood that he is the fortunate personage. Insomuch, 
that he has become a character of considerable notoriety in 
two or three country towns, and has been repeatedly teased 
to exhibit himself at blue-stocking parties, for no other reason 
than that of being “the gentleman who has had a glimpse of 
the author of Waverley.” 

Indeed the poor man has grown ten times as nervous as 
ever since he has discovered, on such good authority, who the 
stout gentleman was; and will never forgive himself for not 
having made a more resolute effort to get a full sight of him. 
He has anxiously endeavored to call up a recollection of what 
he saw of that portly personage ; and has ever since kept a 
curious eye on all gentlemen of more than ordinary dimen- 
sions, whom he has seen getting into stage-coaches. All in 
vain! The features he had caught a glimpse of seem common 
to the whole race of stout gentlemen, and the Great Unknown 
remains as great an unknown as ever. 


Having premised these circumstances, I will now let the 
nervous gentleman proceed with his stories. 


Ses 


THE HUNTING DINNER. 


I WAS once at a hunting-dinner, given by a worthy fox- 

hunting old Baronet, who kept bachelor’s hall in jovial 
style in an ancient rook-haunted family mansion, in one of the 
middle counties. He had been a devoted admirer of the fair 
sex in his younger days; but, having travelled much, studied 
the sex in various countries with distinguished success, and 
returned home profoundly instructed, as he supposed, in the 
ways of woman, and a perfect master of the art of pleasing, 
had the mortification of being jilted by a little boarding-school 
girl, who was scarcely versed in the accidence of love. 

The Baronet was completely overcome by such an incred- 
ible defeat; retired from the world in disgust; put himself 
under the government of his housekeeper ; and took to fox- 
hunting like a perfect Nimrod. Whatever poets may say to 
the contrary, a man will grow out of love as he grows old; 
and a pack of fox-hounds may chase out of his heart even the 
memory of a boarding-school goddess. The Baronet was, 
when I saw him, as merry and mellow an old bachelor as ever 
followed a hound; and the love he had once felt for one 
woman had spread itself over the whole sex; so that there 
was not a pretty face in the whole country round but came in 


\ 


for a share. 


18 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


The dinner was prolonged till a late hour; for our host 
having no ladies in his household to summon us to the draw- 
ing-room, the bottle maintained its true bachelor sway, unri- 
valled by its potent enemy, the tea-kettle. The old hall in 
which we dined echoed to bursts of robustious fox-hunting 
merriment, that made the ancient antlers shake on the walls. 
By degrees, however, the wine and the wassail of mine host 
began to operate upon bodies already a little jaded by the 
chase. The choice spirits which flashed up at the beginning of 
the dinner, sparkled fora time, then gradually went out one 
after another, or only emitted now and then a faint gleam from 
the socket. Some of the briskest talkers, who had given 
tongue so bravely at the first burst, fell fast asleep; and 
none kept on their way but certain of those long-winded 
prosers, who, like short-legged hounds, worry on unnoticed at 
the bottom of conversation, but are sure to be in at the 
death. Even these at length subsided into silence; and 
scarcely any thing was heard but the nasal communications 
of two or three veteran masticators, who having been silent 
while awake, were indemnifying the company in their sleep. 

At length the announcement of tea and coffee in the cedar- 
parlor roused all hands from this temporary torpor. Every 
one awoke marvellously renovated, and while sipping the 
refreshing beverage out of the Baronet’s old-fashioned hered- 
itary china, began to think of departing for their several 
homes. But here a sudden difficulty arose. While we had 
been prolonging our repast, a heavy winter storm had set in, 
with snow, rain, and sleet, driven by such bitter blasts of 
wind, that they threatened to penetrate to the very bone. 

“Tt’s all in vain,” said our hospitable host, “ to think of 


THE HUNTING DINNER. 19 


putting one’s head out of doors in such weather. So, gentle- 
men, I hold you my guests for this night at least, and will 
have your quarters prepared accordingly.” 

The unruly weather, which became more and more tem- 
pestuous, rendered the hospitable suggestion unanswerable. 
The only question was, whether such an unexpected accession 
of company to an already crowded house, would not put the 
housekeeper to her trumps to accommodate them. 

“ Pshaw,” cried mine host; “did you ever know a bache- 
lor’s hall that was not elastic, and able to accommodate twice 
as many asit could hold?” . So, out of a good-humored pique, 
the housekeeper was summoned to a consultation before us 
all. The old lady appeared in her gala suit of faded brocade, 
which rustled with flurry and agitation ; for, in spite of our 
host’s bravado, she was a little perplexed. But in a bache- 
lor’s house, and with bachelor guests, these matters are readily 
managed. There is no lady of the house to stand upon 
squeamish. points about lodging gentlemen in odd holes and 
corners, and exposing the shabby parts of the establishment. 
A bachelor’s housekeeper is used to shifts and emergencies ; 
so, after much worrying to and fro, and divers consultations 
about the red-room, and the blue-room, and the chintz-room, 
and the damask-room, and the little room with the bow- 
window, the matter was finally arranged. 

Whenall this was done, we were once moresummoned to the 
standing rural amusement of eating. The time that had been 
consumed in dozing after dinner, and in the refreshment and 
consultation of the cedar-parlor, was sufficient, in the opinion 
of the rosy-faced butler, to engender a reasonable appetite for 
supper. A slight repast had, therefore, been tricked up from 


20 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


the residue of dinner, consisting of a cold sirloin of beef, 
hashed venison, a devilled leg of a turkey or so, and a few 
other of those light articles taken by country gentlemen to 
ensure sound sleep and heavy snoring. 

The nap after dinner had brightened up every one’s wit ; 
and a great deal of excellent humor was expended upon the 
perplexities of mine host and his housekeeper, by certain 
married gentlemen of the company, who considered them- 
selves privileged in joking with a bachelor’s establishment. 
From this the banter turned as to what quarters each would 
find, on being thus suddenly billeted in so antiquated a 
mansion, . 

“ By my soul,” said an Irish captain of dragoons, one of 
the most merry and boisterous of the party, “ by my soul, 
but I should not be surprised if some of those good-looking 
gentlefolks that hang along the walls should walk about the 
rooms of this stormy night; or if I should find the ghosts 
of one of those long-waisted ladies turning into my bed in 
mistake for her grave in the church-yard.” 

“Do you believe in ghosts, then?” said a thin, hatchet- 
faced gentleman, with projecting eyes like a lobster. 

I had remarked this last personage during dinner-time for 
one of those incessant questioners, who have a craving, un- 
healthy appetite in conversation. He never seemed satisfied 
with the whole of a story; never laughed when others 
laughed; but always put the joke to the question. He 
never could enjoy the kernel of the nut, but pestered himself 
to get more out of the shell. ‘ Do you believe in ghosts, 
then ?” said the inquisitive gentleman. 

“Faith, but I do,” replied the jovial Irishman. “I was 


THE HUNTING DINNER. a1 


brought up in the fear and belief of them. We had a Ben- 
shee in our own family, honey.” 

“A Benshee, and what’s that ?” cried the questioner. 

“ Why, an old lady ghost that tends upon your real Mile- 
sian families, and waits at their window to let them know 
when some of them are to die.” 

“A mighty pleasant piece of information !” cried an elder- 
ly gentleman with a knowing look, and with a flexible nose, to 
which he could give a whimsical twist when he wished to be 
waggish. 

“By my soul, but I’d have you to know it’s a piece of 
distinction to be waited on by a Benshee. It’s a proof that 
one has pure blood in one’s veins. Buti faith, now we are 
talking of ghosts, there never was a house or a night better 
fitted than the present for a ghost adventure. Pray, Sir 
John, haven’t you such a thing as a haunted chamber to put a 
guest in?” 

“ Perhaps,” said the Baronet, smiling, “I might accom- 
modate you even on that point.” 

“ Oh, I should like it of all things, my jewel. Some dark 
oaken room, with ugly wobegone portraits, that stare dismally 
at one; and about which the housekeeper has a power of 
delightful stories of love and murder. And then a dim lamp, 
a table with a rusty sword across it, and a spectre all in white, 
to draw aside one’s curtains at midnight— ” 

“Tn truth,” said an old gentleman at one end of the table, 
“you put me in mind of an anecdote—” 

“Oh, a ghost story! a ghost story!” was vociferated 
round the board, every one edging his chair a little nearer. 

The attention of the whole company was now turned upon 


99 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


the speaker. He was an old gentleman, one side of whose 
face was no match for the other. The eye-lid drooped and 
hung down like an unhinged window-shutter. Indeed, the 
whole side of his head was dilapidated, and seemed like the 
wing of a house shut up and haunted. I'll warrant that side 
was well stuffed with ghost stories. 

There was a universal demand for the tale. 

“ Nay,” said the old gentleman, “ it’s a mere anecdote, and 

a very common-place one; but such as it is you shall have it. 
It isa story that I once heard my uncle tell as having happened 
to himself. He was a man very apt to meet with strange 
adventures. I have heard him tell of others much more sin- 
gular.” 

“ What kind of a man was your uncle ?” said the question- 
ing gentleman. 

“Why, he was rather a dry, shrewd kind of body ; a great 
traveller, and fond of telling his adventures.” 

“ Pray, how old might he have been when that happened ?” 

“When what happened?” cried the gentleman with the 
flexible nose, impatiently. “ Egad, you have not given any 
thing a chance to happen. Come, never mind our uncle’s 
age; let us have his adventures.” 

The inquisitive gentleman being for the moment silenced, 
the old gentleman with the haunted head proceeded. 


THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE. 


ANY years since, some time before the French Revolu- 
tion, my uncle passed several months at Paris. The 
English and French were on better terms in those days than 
at present, and mingled cordially in society. The English 
went abroad to spend money then, and the French were always 
ready to help them: they go abroad to save money at present, 
and that they can do without French assistance. Perhaps 
the travelling English were fewer and choicer than at present, 
when the whole nation has broke loose and inundated the con- 
tinent. At any rate, they circulated more readily and cur- 
rently in foreign society, and my uncle, during his residence 
in Paris, made many very intimate acquaintances among the 
French noblesse. 

Some time afterwards, he was making a journey in the 
winter time in that part of Normandy called the Pays de 
Caux, when, as evening was closing in, he perceived the turrets 
of an ancient chateau rising out of the trees of its walled 
park ; each turret with its high conical roof of gray slate, 
like a candle with an extinguisher on it. 

“To whom does that chateau belong, friend?” cried my 
uncle to a meagre but fiery postilion, who, with tremendous 


jack-boots and cocked hat, was floundering on before him. 


24 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


“'To Monseigneur the Marquis de »’ said the postil- 


ion, touching his hat, partly out of respect to my uncle, and 
partly out of reverence to the noble name pronounced, 

My uncle recollected the Marquis for a particular friend 
in Paris, who had often expressed a wish to seé him at his 
paternal chateau. My uncle was an old traveller, one who 
knew well how to turn things to account. He revolved for a 
few moments in his mind, how agreeable it would be to his 
friend the Marquis to be surprised in this sociable way by a 
pop visit; and how much more agreeable to himself to get 
into snug quarters in a chateau, and have a relish of the Mar- 
quis’s well-known kitchen, and a smack of his superior Cham- 
pagne and Burgundy, rather than put up with the miserable 
lodgment and miserable fare of a provincial inn. In a few 
minutes, therefore, the meagre postilion was cracking his 
whip like a very devil, or like a true Frenchman, up the long 
straight avenue that led to the chateau. 

You have no doubt all seen French chateaus, as every- 
body travels in France nowadays. This was one of the 
oldest ; standing naked and alone in the midst of a desert of 
gravel walks and cold stone terraces; with a cold-looking 
formal garden, cut into angles and rhomboids; and a cold 
leafless park, divided geometrically by straight alleys; and 
two or three cold-looking noseless statues; and fountains 
spouting cold water enough to make one’s teeth chatter. At 
least such was the feeling they imparted on the wintry day of 
my uncle’s visit ; though, in hot summer weather, I’ll warrant 
there was glare enough to scorch one’s eyes out. 

The smacking of the postilion’s whip, which grew more 


and more intense the nearer they approached, frightened a flight 


THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE. 95 


of pigeons out of a dove-cot, and rooks out of the roofs, and 
finally a crew of servants out of the chateau, with the Mar- 
quis at their head. He was enchanted to see my uncle, for 
his chateau, like the house of our worthy host, had not many 
more guests at the time than it could accommodate. So he 
kissed my uncle on each cheek, after the French fashion, and 
ushered him into the castle. 

The Marquis did the honors of the house with the urbanity 
of his country. In fact, he was proud of his old family 
chateau, for part of it was extremely old. There was a tower 
and chapel which had been built almost before the memory 
of man; but the rest was more modern, the castle having been 
nearly demolished during the wars of the league. The Mar- 
quis dwelt upon this event with great satisfaction, and seemed 
really to entertain a grateful feeling towards Henry the Fourth, 
for having thought his paternal mansion worth battering down. 
He had many stories to tell of the prowess of his ancestors ; 
and several skull-caps, helmets, and cross-bows, and divers 
huge boots, and buff jerkins, to show, which had been worn 
by the leaguers. Above all, there was a two-handed sword, 
which he could hardly wield, but which he displayed, as a 
proof that there had been giants in his family. 

In truth, he was but a small descendant from such great 
warriors. When you looked at their bluff visages and brawny 
limbs, as depicted in their portraits, and then at the little 
Marquis, with his spindle shanks, and his sallow lantern visage, 
flanked with a pair of powdered ear-locks, or atles de pigeon, 
that seemed ready to fly away with it, you could hardly believe 
him to be of thé’same race. But when you looked at the eyes 


that sparkled out like a beetle’s from each side of his hooked 
2. 


~ 


26 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


nose, you saw at once that he inherited all the fiery spirit of 
his forefathers. In fact, a Frenchman’s spirit never exhales, 
however his body may dwindle. It rather rarefies, and grows 
more inflammable, as the earthy particles diminish; and I 
have seen valor enough in a little fiery-hearted French dwarf 
to have furnished out a tolerable giant. 

When once the Marquis, as was his wont, put on one of 
the old helmets stuck up in his hall, though his head no more 
filled it than a dry pea its peascod, yet his eyes flashed from 
the bottom of the iron cavern with the brillianey of car- 
buncles; and when he poised the ponderous two-handed 
sword of his ancestors, you would have thought you saw the 
doughty little David wielding the sword of Goliath, which 
was unto him like a weaver’s beam. 

Tlowever, gentlemen, I am dwelling too long on this de- 
scription of the Marquis and his chateau, but you must excuse 
me; he was an old friend of my uncle; and whenever my 
uncle told the story, he was always fond of talking a great 
deal about his host.—Poor little Marquis! He was one of 
that handful of gallant courtiers who made such a devoted 
but hopeless stand in the cause of their sovereign, in the 
chateau of the Tuileries, against the irruption of the mob on 
the sad tenth of August. He displayed the valor of a preux 
French chevalier to the last; flourishing feebly his little court 
sword with a ga-ca / in face of a whole legion of sans culottes ; 
but was pinned to the wall like a butterfly, by the pike of a 
poissarde, and his heroic soul was borne up to heaven on his 
atles de pigeon. 

But all this has nothing to do with my story. To the 


point, then. When the hour arrived for retiring for the night, 


THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE. 27 


my uncle was shown to his room in a venerable old tower. 
It was the oldest part of the chateau, and had in ancient 
times been tlfe donjon or strong-hold ; of course the chamber 
was none of the best. ‘The Marquis had put him there, how- 
ever, because he knew him to be a traveller of taste, and fond 
of antiquities ; and also because the better apartments were 
already occupied. Indeed, he perfectly reconciled my uncle to 
his quarters by mentioning the great personages who had once 
inhabited them, all of whom were, in some way or other, con- 
nected with the family. If you would take his word for it, 
John Baliol, or as he called him, Jean de Bailleul, had died of 
chagrin in this very chamber, on hearing of the success of his 
rival, Robert de Bruce, at the battle of Bannockburn. And 
when he added that the Duke de Guise had slept in it, my 
uncle was fain to felicitate himself on being honored with such 
distinguished quarters. 

The night was shrewd and windy, and the chamber none 
of the warmest. An old long-faced, long-bodied servant, in 
quaint livery, who attended upon my uncle, threw down an 
armful of wood beside the fireplace, gave a queer look about 
the room, and then wished him bon repos with a grimace and 
a shrug that would have been suspicious from any other than 
an old French servant. 

The chamber had indeed a wild, crazy look, enough to 
strike any one who had read romances with apprehension and 
foreboding. ‘The windows were high and narrow, and had 
once been loop-holes, but had been rudely enlarged, as well as 
the extreme thickness of the walls would permit; and the ill- 
fitted casements rattled to every breeze. You would have 


thought, on a windy night, some of the old leaguers were 


28 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


/ 


tramping and clanking about the apartment in their huge 
boots and rattling spurs. A door which stood ajar, and, like 
a true French door, would stand ajar in spite of every reason 
and effort to the contrary, opened upon a long dark corridor, 
that led the Lord knows whither, and seemed just made for 
ghosts to air themselves in, when they turned out of their 
graves at midnight. The wind would spring up into a hoarse 
murmur through this passage, and creak the door to and fro, 
as if some dubious ghost were balancing in its mind whether 
to come in or not. In a word, it was precisely the kind of 
comfortless apartment that a ghost, if ghost there were in the 
chateau, would single out for its favorite lounge. 

My uncle, however, though a man accustomed to meet 
with strange adventures, apprehended none at the time. He 
made several attempts to shut the door, but in vain. Not 
that he apprehended any thing, for he was too old a traveller 
to be daunted by a wild-looking apartment ; but the night, as 
I have said, was cold and gusty, and the wind howled about 
the old turret pretty much as it does round this old mansion 
at this moment; and the breeze from the long dark corridor 
came in as damp and as chilly as if from a dungeon. My 
uncle, therefore, since he could not close the door, threw a 
quantity of wood on the fire, which soon sent up a flame in 
the great wide-mouthed chimney that illumined the whole 
chamber ; and made the shadow of the tongs on the opposite 
wall look like a long-legged giant. My uncle now clambered 
on the top of the halfscore of mattresses which form a 
French bed, and which stood in a deep recess; then tucking 
himself snugly in, and burying himself up to the chin in the 


bedclothes, he lay looking at the fire, and listening to the 


THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE. 29 


wind, and thinking how knowingly he had come over his 
friend the Marquis for a night’s lodging—and so he fell 
asleep. 

He had not taken above half of his first nap when he was 
awakened by the clock of the chateau, in the turret over his 
chamber, which struck midnight. It was just such an old 
clock as ghosts are fond of. It had a deep, dismal tone, and 
struck so slowly and tediously that my uncle thought it 
would never have done. He counted and counted till he was 
confident he counted thirteen, and then it stopped. 

The fire had burnt low, and the blaze of the last fagot was 
almost expiring, burning in small blue flames, which now and 
then lengthened up into little white gleams. My uncle lay 
with his eyes half closed, and his nightcap drawn almost down 
to his nose. His fancy was already wandering, and began to 
mingle up the present scene with the crater of Vesuvius, the 
French Opera, the Coliseum at Rome, Dolly’s chop-house in 
London, and all the farrago of noted places with which the 
brain of a traveller is crammed :—in a word, he was just fall- 
ing asleep. 

Suddenly he was roused by the sound of footsteps, slowly 
pacing along the corridor. My uncle, as I have often heard 
him say himself, was a man not easily frightened. So he lay 
quiet, supposing this some other guest, or some servant on 
his way to bed. The footsteps, however, approached the 
door; the door gently opened ;- whether of its own accord, or 
whether pushed open, my uncle could not distinguish: a 
ficure all in white glided in. It was a female, tall and 
stately, and of a commanding air. Her dress was of an 


ancient fashion, ample in volume, and sweeping the floor. 


30 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


She walked up to the fireplace, without regarding my uncle, 
who raised his nightcap with one hand, and stared earnestly 
at her. She remained for some time standing by the fire, 
which, flashing up at intervals, cast blue and white gleams of 
light, that enabled my uncle to remark her appearance mi- 
nutely. 

Her face was ghastly pale, and perhaps rendered still 
more so by the bluish light of the fire. It possessed beauty, 
but its beauty was saddened by care and anxiety. There was 
the look of one accustomed to trouble, but of one whom 
trouble could not cast down nor subdue; for there was still 
the predominating air of proud, unconquerable resolution. 
Such at least was the opinion formed by my uncle, and he 
considered himself a great physiognomist. 

The figure remained, as I said, for some time by the fire, 
putting out first one hand, then the other; then each foot al- 
ternately, as if warming itself; for your ghosts, if ghost it 
really was, are apt to be cold. My uncle, furthermore, re- 
marked that it wore high-heeled shoes, after an ancient 
fashion, with paste or diarnond buckles, that sparkled as 
though they were alive. At length the figure turned gently 
round, casting a glassy look about the apartment, which, as it 
passed over my uncle, made his blood run cold, and chilled 
the very marrow in his bones. It then stretched its arms 
towards heaven, clasped its hands, and wringing them in a 
supplicating manner, glided slowly out of the room. 

My uncle lay for some time meditating on this visitation, 
for (as he remarked when he told me the story) though a 
man of firmness, he was also a man of reflection, and did not 


reject a thing because it was out of the regular course of 


THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE. 31 


events. However, being, as I have before said, a great trav- 
eller, and accustomed to strange adventures, he drew his 
nightcap resolutely over his eyes, turned his back to the door, 
hoisted the bedclothes high over his shoulders, and gradually 
fell asleep. 

How long he slept he could not say, when he was awak- 
ened by the voice of some one at his bedside. He turned 
round, and beheld the old French servant, with his ear-locks 
in tight buckles on each side of a long lantern face, on which 
habit had deeply wrinkled an everlasting smile. He made a 
thousand grimaces, and asked a thousand pardons for disturb- 
ing Monsieur, but the morning was considerably advanced. 
While my uncle was dressing, he called vaguely to mind the 
visitor of the preceding night. He asked the ancient domes- 
tic what lady was in the habit of rambling about this part of 
the chateau at night. The old valet shrugged his shoulders 
as high as his head, laid one hand on his bosom, threw open 
the other with every finger extended, made a most whimsical 
grimace which he meant to be complimentary, and replied, 
that it was not for him to know any thing of les bonnes 
Jortunes of Monsieur, 

My uncle saw there was nothing satisfactory to be learned 
in this quarter.—After breakfast, he was walking with the 
Marquis through the modern apartments of the chateau, slid- 
ing over the well-waxed floors of silken saloons, amidst fur- 
niture rich in gilding and brocade, until they came to a long 
picture gallery, containing many portraits, some in oil and 
some in chalks. 

Here was an ample field for the eloquence of his host, 


who had all the pride of a nobleman of the ancien régime. 


32 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


There was not a grand name in Normandy, and hardly one in 
France, which was not, in some way or other, connected with 
his house. My uncle stood listening with inward impatience, 
resting sometimes on one leg, sometimes on the other, as the 
little Marquis descanted, with his usual fire and vivacity, on 
the achievements of his ancestors, whose portraits hung along 
the wall; from the martial deeds of the stern warriors in 
steel, to the gallantries and intrigues of the blue-eyed gentle- 
men, with fair smiling faces, powdered ear-locks, laced ruffles, 
and pink and blue silk coats and breeches ;—not forgetting 
the conquests of the lovely shepherdesses, with hooped petti- 
coats and waists, no thicker than an hour-glass, who appeared 
ruling over their sheep and their swains, with dainty crooks 
decorated with fluttering ribbons. 

In the midst of his friend’s discourse, my uncle was 
startled on beholding a full-length portrait, the very counter- 
part of his visitor of the preceding night. 

“ Methinks,” said he, pointing to it, “I have seen the orig- 
inal of this portrait.” 

“ Pardonnez moi,” replied the Marquis politely, “that can 
hardly be, as the lady has been dead more than a hundred 
years. That was the beautiful Duchess de Longueville, who 
figured during the minority of Louis the Fourteenth.” 

“ And was there any thing remarkable in her history?” 

Never was question more unlucky. The little Marquis 
immediately threw himself into the attitude of a man about 
to tell a long story. In fact, my uncle had pulled upon him- 
self the whole history of the civil war of the Fronde, in which 
the beautiful Duchess had played so distinguished a part. 
Turenne, Coligni, Mazarin, were called up from their graves 


THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE. 33 


to grace his narration; nor were the affairs of the Barrica- 
does, nor the chivalry of the Port Cocheres forgotten. My 
uncle began to wish himself a thousand leagues off from the 
Marquis and his merciless memory, when suddenly the little 
man’s recollections took a more interesting turn. He was 
relating the imprisonment of the Duke de Longueville with 
the Princes Condé and Conti in the chateau of Vincennes, and 
the ineffectual efforts of the Duchess to rouse the sturdy Nor- 
mans to their rescue. He had come to that part where she 
was invested by the royal forces in the Castle of Dieppe. 

“The spirit of the Duchess,” proceeded the Marquis, 
“rose from her trials. It was astonishing to see so delicate 
and beautiful a being buffet so resolutely with hardships. 
She determined on a desperate means of escape. You may 
have seen the chateau in which she was mewed up ; an old 
ragged wart of an edifice, standing on the knuckle of a hill, 
just above the rusty little town of Dieppe. One dark unruly 
night she issued secretly out of a small postern gate of the 
castle, which the enemy had neglected to guard. The postern 
gate is there to this very day ; opening upon a narrow bridge 
over a deep fosse between the castle and the brow of the hill. 
She was followed by her female attendants, a few domestics, 
and some gallant cavaliers, who still remained faithful to her 
fortunes. Her object was to gain a small port about two 
leagues distant, where she had privately provided a vessel for 
her escape in case of emergency. 

“The little band of fugitives were obliged to perform the 
distance on foot. When they arrived at the port the wind 
was high and stormy, the tide contrary, the vessel anchored 


far off in the road, and no means of getting on board but by 


9% 


34+ TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


a fishing shallop which lay tossing like a cockle-shell on the 
edge of the surf. The Duchess determined to risk the at- 
tempt. The seamen endeavored to dissuade her, but the 
imminence of her danger on shore, and the magnanimity of her 
spirit, urged her on. She had to be borne to the shallop in 
the arms of a mariner. Such was the violence of the wind 
and waves that he faltered, lost his foothold, and let his 
precious burden fall into the sea. 7 

“The Duchess was nearly drowned, but partly through 
her own struggles, partly by the exertions of the seamen, she 
got to land. As soon as she had a little recovered strength, 
she insisted on renewing the attempt. The storm, however, 
had by this time become so violent as to set all efforts at 
defiance. ‘To delay, was to be discovered and taken prisoner. 
As the only resource left, she procured horses, mounted with 
her female attendants, en croupe, behind the gallant gentlemen 
who accompanied her, and scoured the country to seek some 
temporary asylum. 

“While the Duchess,” continued the Marquis, laying his 
fore-finger on my uncle’s breast to arouse his flagging atten- 
tion,—* while the Duchess, poor lady, was wandering amid 
the tempest in this disconsolate manner, she arrived at this 
chateau. Her approach caused some uneasiness; for the 
clattering of a troop of horse at dead of night up the avenue 
of a lonely chateau, in those unsettled times, and in a troubled 
part of the country, was enough to occasion alarm. 

“A tall, broad-shouldered chasseur, armed to the teeth, 
galloped ahead, and announced the name of the visitor. All 
uneasiness was dispelled. The household turned out with 


flambeaux to receive her, and never did torches gleam on a 


THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE. 35 


more weather-beaten, travel-stained band than came tramping 
into the court. Such pale, care-worn faces, such bedraggled 
dresses, as the poor Duchess and her females presented, each 
seated behind her cavalier: while the half-drenched, half 
drowsy pages and attendants seemed ready to fall from their 
horses with sleep and fatigue. 

“The Duchess was received with a hearty welcome by 
my ancestor. She was ushered into the hall of the chateau, 
and the fires soon crackled and blazed, to cheer herself and 
her train; and every spit and stew-pan was put in requisition 
to prepare ample refreshment for the way farers. 

“She had a right to our hospitalities,” continued the Mar- 
quis, drawing himself up with a slight degree of statcliness, 
“for she was related to our family. Tl tell you how it was. 
Her father, Henry de Bourbon, Prince of Condé——~—” 

‘“‘ But, did the Duchess pass the night in the chateau?” 
said my uncle rather abruptly, terrified at the idea of getting 
involved in one of the Marquis’s genealogical discussions. 

“ Oh, as to the Duchess, she was put into the very apart- 
ment you occupied last night, which at that time was a kind 
of state apartment. Her followers were quartered in the 
chambers opening upon the neighboring corridor, and her 
favorite page slept in an adjoining closet. Up and down the 
corridor walked the great chasseur who had announced her 
arrival, and who acted as a kind of sentinel or guard. He 
was a dark, stern, powerful-looking fellow; and as the light 
of a lamp in the eorridor fell upon his deeply-marked face and 
sinewy form, he seemed capable of defending the castle with 
his single arm. 


“It was a rough, rude night; about this time of the year 


86 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


—apropos !—now I think of it, last night was the anniversary 
of her visit. I may well remember the precise date, for it 
was a night not to be forgotten by our house. There is a 
singular tradition concerning it in our family.” Here the 
Marquis hesitated, and a cloud seemed to gather about his 
bushy eyebrows. “There is a tradition—that a strange oc- 
currence took place that night.—A strange, mysterious, inex- 


’ Here he checked himself, and paused. 


plicable occurrence—’ 
“ Did it relate to that lady ?” inquired my uncle eagerly. 
“Tt was past the hour of midnight,” resumed the Mar- 


quis,—“ when the whole chateau 3 


Here he paused 
again. My uncle made a movement of anxious curiosity. 

“ Excuse me,” said the Marquis, a slight blush streaking 
his sallow visage. “There are some circumstances connected 
with our family history which I do not like to relate. That 
was a rude period. A time of great crimes among great 
men: for you know high blood, when it runs wrong, will not 
run tamely, like blood of the canatlle-—poor lady !—But I 
have a little family pride, that—excuse me—we will change 
the subject, if you please—” 

My uncle’s curiosity was piqued. The pompous and 
magnificent introduction had led him to expect something 
wonderful in the story to which it served as a kind of avenue. 
He had no idea of being cheated out of it by a sudden fit of 
unreasonable squeamishness. Besides, being a traveller in 
quest of information, he considered it his duty to inquire into 
every thing. 

The Marquis, however, evaded every question.—“ Well,” 
said my uncle, a little petulantly, “ whatever you may think 


of it, I saw that lady last night.” 


THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE. 37 


The Marquis stepped back and gazed at him with surprise. 

“She paid me a visit in my bed-chamber.” 

The Marquis pulled out his snuff-box with a shrug and a 
smile; taking this no doubt for an awkward piece of English 
pleasantry, which politeness required him to be charmed 
with. 

My uncle went on gravely, however, and related the 
whole circumstance. The Marquis heard him through with 
profound attention, holding his snuff-box unopened in his 
hand. When the story was finished, he tapped on the lid 
of his box deliberately, took a long, sonorous pinch of 
snuff 

“Bah!” said the Marquis, and walked towards the other 
end of the gallery. 


Here the narrator paused. The company waited for 
some time for him to resume his narration ; but he continued 
silent. 

“Well,” said the inquisitive gentleman—“ and what did 
your uncle say then?” 

“ Nothing,” replied the other. 

* And what did the Marquis say farther ?” 

“ Nothing.” 

“ And is that all?” 

“That is all,” said the narrator, filling a glass of wine. 

“T surmise,” said the shrewd old gentleman with the 
waggish nose,—“ I surmise the ghost must have been the old 
housekeeper, walking her rounds to see that all was right.” 

“Bah!” said the narrator. “My uncle was too much 
accustomed to strange sights not to know a ghost from a 


housekeeper.” 
9 * 


38 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


There was a murmur round the table, half of merriment, 
half of disappointment. I was inclined to think the old gen- 
tleman had really an afterpart of his story in reserve; but he 
sipped his wine and said nothing more; and there was an oad 
expression about his dilapidated countenance which left me in 
doubt whether he were in drollery or earnest. 

“Egad,” said the knowing gentleman, with the flexible 
nose, “this story of your uncle puts me in mind of one that 
used to be told of an aunt of mine, by the mother’s side; 
though I don’t know that it will bear a comparison, as the 
good lady was not so prone to meet with strange adventures. 


But any rate you shall have it.” 


a | 


THE ADVENTURE OF MY AUNT. 


M* aunt was a lady of large frame, strong mind, and great 

resolution: she was what might be termed a very manly 
woman. My uncle was a thin, puny little man, very meek 
and acquiescent, and no match for my aunt. It was observed 
that he dwindled and dwindled gradually away, from the day 
of his marriage. His wife’s powerful mind was too much for 
him ; it wore him out. My aunt, however, took all possible 
care of him; had half the doctors in town to prescribe for 
him; made him take all their prescriptions, and dosed him 
with physic enough to cure a whole hospital. All was in 
vain. My uncle grew worse and worse the more dosing and 
nursing he underwent, until in the end he added another to 
the long list of matrimonial victims who have been killed with 
kindness. 

“ And was it his ghost that appeared to her?” asked the 
inquisitive gentleman, who had questioned the former story- 
teller. 

“You shall hear,” replied the narrator. My aunt took on 
mightily for the death of her poor dear husband. Perhaps 
she felt some compunction at having given him so much 
physic, and nursed him into the grave. At any rate, she did 
all that a widow could do to honor his memory. She spared 


40 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


no expense in either the quantity or quality of her mourning 
weeds ; wore a miniature of him about her neck as large as a 
little sun-dial, and had a full-length portrait of him always 
hanging in her bed-chamber. All the world extolled her con- 
duct to the skies; and it was determined that a woman who 
behaved so well to the memory of one husband deserved soon 
to get another. 

It was not long after this that she went to take up her 
residence in an old country-seat in Derbyshire, which had long 
been in the care of merely a steward and housekeeper. She 
took most of her servants with her, intending to make it her 
principal abode. The house stood in a lonely, wild part of 
the country, among the gray Derbyshire hills, with a mur- 
derer hanging in chains on a bleak height in full view. 

The servants from town were half frightened out of their 
wits at the idea of living in such a dismal, pagan-looking 
place ; especially when they got together in the servants’ hall 
in the evening, and compared notes on all the hobgoblin 
stories picked up in the course of the day. They were afraid 
to venture alone about the gloomy, black-looking chambers. 
My lady’s maid, who was troubled with nerves, declared 
she could never sleep alone in such a “ gashly rummaging old 
building ;” and the footman, who was a kind-hearted young 
fellow, did all in his power to cheer her up. 

My aunt was struck with the lonely appearance of the 
house. Before going to bed, therefore, she examined well 
the fastnesses of the doors and windows; locked up the plate 
with her own hands, and carried the keys, together with a 
little box of money and jewels, to her own room; for she was 


a notable woman, and always saw to all things herself. Hav- 


THE ADVENTURE OF MY AUNT. 41 


ing put the keys under her pillow, and dismissed her maid, 
she sat by her toilet arranging her hair; for being, in spite 
of her grief for my uncle, rather a buxom widow, she was 
somewhat particular about her person. She sat for a little 
while looking at her face in the glass, first on one side, then 
on the other, as ladies are apt to do when they would ascer- 
tain whether they have been in good looks; for a roistering 
country squire of the neighborhood, with whom she had flirted 
when a girl, had called that day to welcome her to the coun- 
try. 

All of a sudden she thought she heard something move be- 
hind her. She looked hastily round, but there was nothing 
to be seen. Nothing but the grimly painted portrait of her 
poor dear man, hanging against the wall. 

She gave a heavy sigh to his memory, as she was accus- 
tomed to do whenever she spoke of him in company, and then 
went on adjusting her night-dress, and thinking of the squire. 
Her sigh was re-echoed, or answered by a long-drawn breath. 
She looked round again, but no one was to be seen. She as- 
cribed these sounds to the wind oozing through the rat-holes 
of the old mansion, and proceeded leisurely to put her hair in 
papers, when, all at once, she thought she perceived one of 
the eyes of the portrait move. . 

“The back of her head being towards it!” said the story- 
teller with the ruined head,—“ good !” 

“Yes, sir!” replied dryly the narrator, “her back being 
towards the portrait, but her eyes fixed on its reflection in the 
glass.” Well, as I was saying, she perceived one of the eyes 
of the portrait move. So strange a circumstance, as you may 
well suppose, gave her a sudden shock. To assure herself of 


i) 


42 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


the fact, she put one hand to her forehead as if rubbing it; 
peeped through her fingers, and moved the candle with the 
other hand. The light of the taper gleamed on the eye, and 
was reflected from it. She was sure it moved. Nay, more, 
it seemed to give her a wink, as she had sometimes known 
her husband to do when living! It struck a momentary 
chill to her heart; for she was a lone woman, and felt herself 
fearfully situated. 7 

The chill was but transient. My aunt, who was almost 
as resolute a personage as your uncle, sir, (turning to the old 
story-teller,) became instantly calm and collected. She went 
on adjusting her dress. She even hummed an air, and did not 
make even~a single false note. She casually overturned a 
dressing-box; took a candle and picked up the articles one 
by one from the floor ; pursued a rolling pincushion that was 
making the best of its way under the bed; then opened the 
door ; looked for an instant into the corridor, as if in doubt 
whether to go; and then walked quietly out. 

She hastened down stairs, ordered the servants to arm 
themselves with the weapons first at hand, placed herself at 
their head, and returned almost immediately. 

Her hastily-levied army presented a formidable force. 
The steward had a rusty blunderbuss, the coachman a loaded 
whip, the footman a pair of horse-pistols, the cook a huge 
chopping-knife, and the butler a bottle in each hand. My 
aunt led the van with a red-hot poker, and in my opinion, she 
was the most formidable of the party. The waiting-maid, 
who dreaded to stay alone in the servants’ hall, brought up 
the rear, smelling to a broken bottle of volatile salts, and 
expressing her terror of the ghostesses. “Ghosts!” said my 
aunt, resolutely. “T’ll singe their whiskers for them !” 


THE ADVENTURE OF MY AUNT. 43 


They entered the chamber. All was still and undisturbed 
as when she had left it. ‘They approached the portrait of my 
uncle. 

“ Pull down that picture!” cried my aunt. A heavy 
groan, and a sound like the chattering of teeth, issued from 
the portrait. The servants shrunk back; the maid uttered a 
faint shriek, and clung to the footman for support. 

“Instantly !” added my aunt, with a stamp of the foot. 

The picture was pulled down, and from a recess behind it, 
in which had formerly stood a clock, they hauled forth a 
round-shouldered, black-bearded varlet, with a knife as long as 
my arm, but trembling all over like an aspen-leaf. 

“ Well, and who was he? No ghost, I suppose,” said the 
inquisitive gentleman. 

“A Knight of the Post,” replied the narrator, “who had 
been smitten with the worth of the wealthy widow; or rather 
a marauding Tarquin, who had stolen into her chamber to 
violate her purse, and rifle her strong box, when all the house 
should be asleep. In plain terms,” continued he, “ the vaga- 
bond was a loose idle fellow of the neighborhood, who had 
once been a servant in the house, and had been employed to 
assist in arranging it for the reception of its mistress. He 
confessed that he had contrived this hiding-place for his nefari- 
ous purpose, and had borrowed an eye from the portrait by 
way of a reconnoitring-hole.” 

“ And what did they do with him ?—did they hang him ?” 
resumed the questioner. 

“Hang him !—how could they?” exclaimed a beetle- 
browed barrister, with a hawk’s nose. “ The offence was not 
capital. No robbery, no assault had been committed. No 
forcible entry or breaking into the premises—” 


44 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


“ My aunt,” said the narrator, “was a woman of spirit, 
and apt take the law in her own hands. She had her own 
notions of cleanliness also. She ordered the fellow to be 
drawn through the horse-pond, to cleanse away all offences, 
and then to be well rubbed down with an oaken towel.” 

“ And what became of him afterwards?” said the inquisi- 
tive gentleman. 

“TI do not exactly know. I believe he was sent on a voy- 
age of improvement to Botany Bay.” 

“And your aunt,” said the inquisitive gentleman; “T’ll 
warrant she took care to make her maid sleep in the room 
with her after that.” 

“ No, sir, she did better; she gave her hand shortly after 
to the roistering squire; for she used to observe, that it was 
a dismal thing for a woman to sleep alone in the country.” 

“She was right,” observed the inquisitive gentleman, nod- 
ding sagaciously ; “but I am sorry they did not hang that 
fellow.” 

It was agreed on all hands that the last narrator had 
brought his tale to the most satisfactory conclusion, though a 
country clergyman present regretted that the uncle and aunt, 
who figured in the different stories, had not been married to- 
gether ; they certainly would have been well matched. 

“ But I don’t see, after all,” said the inquisitive gentleman, 
“that there was any ghost in this last story.” 

“Oh! Ifit’s ghosts you want, honey,” cried the Irish Cap: 
tain of Dragoons, “if it’s ghosts you want, you shall have a 
whole regiment of them. And since these gentlemen have 
given the adventures of their uncles and aunts, faith, and Pll 
even give you a chapter out of my own family history.” 


THE BOLD DRAGOON; 


OR THE 


ADVENTURE OF MY GRANDFATHER. 


Y grandfather was a bold dragoon, for it’s a profession, 
d’ye see, that has run in the family. All my forefathers 
have been dragoons, and died on the field of honor, except 
myself, and I hope my posterity may be able to say the 
same; however, I don’t mean to be vainglorious. Well, my 
grandfather, as I said, was a bold dragoon, and had served in 
the Low Countries. In fact, he was one of that very army, 
which, according to my uncle Toby, swore so terribly in 
Flanders. He could swear a good stick himself; and more- 
over was the very man that introduced the doctrine Corporal 
Trim mentions of radical heat and radical moisture; or, in 
other words, the mode of keeping out the damps of ditch- 
water by burnt brandy. Be that as it may, it’s nothing to 
the purport of my story. I only tell it to show you that my 
grandfather was a man not easily to be humbugged. He had 
seen service, or, according to his own phrase, he had seen the 
devil—and that’s saying every thing. 

Well, gentlemen, my grandfather was on his way to Eng- 
land, for which he intended to embark from Ostend—bad luck 
to the place! for one where I was kept by storms and _head- 
winds for three long days, and the devil of a jolly companion 
or pretty girl to comfort me. Well, as I was saying, my 


46 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


grandfather was on his way to England, or rather to Ostend 
—no matter which, it’s all the same. So one evening, towards 
nightfall, he rode jollily into Bruges.—Very like you all know 
Bruges, gentlemen ; a queer old-fashioned Flemish town, once, 
they say, a great place for trade and money-making in old 
times, when the Mynheers were in their glory ; but almost as 
large and as empty as an Irishman’s pocket at the present 
day.—Well, gentlemen, it was at the time of the annual fair. 
All Bruges was crowded; and the canals swarmed with 
Dutch boats, and the streets swarmed with Dutch merchants ; 
and there was hardly any getting along for goods, wares, and 
merchandises, and peasants in big breeches, and women in 
half a score of petticoats. 

My grandfather rode jollily along, in his easy, slashing 
way, for he was a saucy, sunshiny fellow—staring about him 
at the motley crowd, and the old houses with gable ends to 
the street, and storks’ nests in the chimneys; winking at the 
yafrows who showed their faces at the windows, and joking 
the women right and left in the street ; all of whom laughed, 
and took it in amazing good part; for though he did not know 
a word of the language, yet he had always a knack of making 
himself understood among the women. 

Well, gentlemen, it being the time of the annual fair, all 
the town was crowded, every inn and tavern full, and my 
grandfather applied in vain from one to the other for admit- 
tance. At length he rode up to an old rickety inn, that looked 
ready to fall to pieces, and which all the rats would have run 
away from, if they could have found room in any other house 
to put their heads. It was just such a queer building as you 
see in Dutch pictures, with a tall roof that reached up into 


THE BOLD DRAGOON. 47 


the clouds, and as many garrets, one over the other, as the 
seven heavens of Mahomet. Nothing had saved it from tum- 
bling down but a stork’s nest on the chimney, which always 
brings good luck to a house in the Low Countries ; and at the 
very time of my grandfather’s arrival, there were two of 
these long-legged birds of grace standing like ghosts on the 
chimney-top. Faith, but they’ve kept the house on its legs toe 
this very day, for you may see it any time you pass through 
Bruges, as it stands there yet, only it is turned into a brewery 
of strong Flemish beer,—at least it was so when I came that 
way after the battle of Waterloo. 

My grandfather eyed the house curiously as he approached. 
It might not have altogether struck his fancy, had he not seen 


in large letters over the door, 


HEER VERKOOPT MAN GOEDEN DRANK. 


My grandfather had learnt enough of the language to know 
that the sign promised good liquor. “ This is the house for 
me,” said he, stopping short before the door. 

The sudden appearance of a dashing dragoon was an event 
in an old inn frequented only by the peaceful sons of traffie. 
A rich burgher of Antwerp, a stately ample man in a broad 
Flemish hat, and who was the great man and great patron 
of the establishment, sat smoking a clean long pipe on one 
side of the door; a fat little distiller of Geneva, from 
Schiedam, sat smoking on the other; and the bottle-nosed 
host stood in the door, and the comely hostess, in crimped 
_cap, beside him; and the hostess’s daughter, a plump Flanders 
lass, with long gold pendants in her ears, was at a side win- 


dow. 


48 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


“Humph!” said the rich burgher of Antwerp, with a 
sulky glance at the stranger. 

“ De duyvel!” said the fat little distiller of Schiedam. 

The landlord saw, with the quick glance of a publican, that 
the new gucst was not at all to the taste of the old ones; and, 
to tell the truth, he did not like my grandfather’s saucy eye. 
He shook his head. “ Nota garret in the house but was full.” 

“ Not a garret!” echoed the landlady. 

“ Not a garret!” echoed the daughter. 

The burgher of Antwerp, and the little distiller of Schie- 
dam, continued to smoke their pipes sullenly, eyeing the enemy 
askance from under their broad hats, but said nothing. 

My grandfather was not a man to be browbeaten. He 
threw the reins on his horse’s neck, cocked his head on one 
side, stuck one arm akimbo,—‘ Faith and troth!” said he, 
“ but Pll sleep in this house this very night.”—As he said this 
he gave a slap on his thigh, by way of emphasis—the slap 
went to the landlady’s heart. 

He followed up the vow by jumping off his horse, and 
making his way past the staring Mynheers into the public 
room.—May be you’ve been in the bar-room of an old Flem- 
ish inn—faith, but a handsome chamber it was as you’d wish 
to see; with a brick floor, and a great fireplace, with the 
whole Bible history in glazed tiles; and then the mantel- 
piece, pitching itself head foremost out of the wall, with a 
whole regiment of cracked teapots and earthen jugs paraded 
on it; not to mention half a dozen great Delft platters, hung 
about the room by way of pictures; and the little bar in one 
corner, and the bouncing bar-maid inside of it, with a red 
calico cap, and yellow ear-drops. 


= 


‘THE BOLD DRAGOON. 49 


My grandfather snapped his fingers over his head, as he 
cast an eye round the room— Faith, this is the very house 
I’ve been looking after,” said he. 

There was some further show of resistance on the part of 
the garrison; but my grandfather was an old soldier, and an 
Irishman to boot, and not easily repulsed, especially after he 
had got into the fortress. So he blarneyed the landlord, 
kissed the landlord’s wife, tickled the landlord’s daughter, 
chucked the bar-maid under the chin; and it was agreed on 
all hands that it would be a thousand pities, and a burning 
shame into the bargain, to turn such a bold dragoon into the 
streets. So they laid their heads together, that is to say, my 
grandfather and the landlady, and it was at length agreed to 
accommodate him with an old chamber, that had been for some 
time shut up. 

“Some say it’s haunted,” whispered the landlord’s daugh- 
ter; “but you are a bold dragoon, and I dare say don’t fear 
ghosts.” 

“The devil a bit!” said my grandfather, pinching her 
plump cheek. “But if I should be troubled by ghosts, Pve 
been to the Red Sea in my time, and have a pleasant way of 
laying them, my darling.” 

And then he whispered something to the girl which made 
her laugh, and give him a good-humored box on the ear. In 
short, there was nobody knew better how to make his way 
among the petticoats than my grandfather. 

In a little while, as was his usual way, he took complete 
possession of the house, swaggering all over it; into the stable 
to look after his horse, into the kitchen to look after his sup- 
per. He had something to say or do with every one; smoked 


3 


50 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


with the Dutchmen, drank with the Germans, slapped the 
landlord on the shoulder, romped with his daughter and the 
bar-maid :—never, since the days of Alley Croaker, had such 
a rattling blade been seen. The landlord stared at him with 
astonishment; the landlord’s daughter hung her head and 
giggled whenever he came near; and as he swaggered along 
the corridor, with his sword trailing by his side, the maids 
looked after him, and whispered to one another, “ What a 
proper man!” 

At supper, my grandfather took command of the table- 
d’héte as though he had been at home; helped everybody, 
not forgetting himself; talked with every one, whether he 
understood their language or not; and made his way into the 
intimacy of the rich burgher of Antwerp, who had never been 
known to be sociable with any one during his life. In fact, 
he revolutionized the whole establishment, and gave it such a 
rouse, that the very house reeled with it. He outsat every 
one at table, excepting the little fat distiller of Schiedam, who 
sat soaking a long time before he broke forth; but when he 
did, he was a very devil incarnate. He took a violent affection 
for my grandfather; so they sat drinking and smoking, and 
telling stories, and singing Dutch and Irish songs, without 
understanding a word each other said, until the little Hollander 
was fairly swamped with his own gin and water, and carried 
off to bed, whooping and hickuping, and trolling the burden 
of a Low Dutch love-song. 

Well, gentlemen, my grandfather was shown to his quar- 
ters up a large staircase, composed of loads of hewn timber ; 
and through long rigmarole passages, hung with blackened 
paintings of fish, and fruit, and game, and country frolics, and 


THE BOLD DRAGOON. 51 


huge kitchens, and portly burgomasters, such as you see 
about old-fashioned Flemish inns, till at length he arrived at 
his room. 

An old-times chamber it was, sure enough, and crowded 
with all kinds of trumpery. It looked like an infirmary for 
decayed and superannuated furniture, where every thing 
diseased or disabled was sent to nurse or to be forgotten. Or 
rather it might be taken for a general congress of old legiti- 
mate movables, where every kind and country had a repre- 
sentative. No two chairs were alike. Such high backs and 
low backs, and leather bottoms, and worsted bottoms, and 
straw bottoms, and ne bottoms; and cracked marble tables 
with curiously carved legs, holding balls in their claws, as 
though they were going to play at nine-pins. 

My grandfather made a bow to the motley assemblage as 
he entered, and, having undressed himself, placed his light in 
the fireplace, asking pardon of the tongs, which seemed to be 
making love to the shovel in the chimney-corner, and whisper- 
ing soft nonsense in its ear. 

The rest of the guests were by this time sound asleep, for 
your Mynheers are huge sleepers. The housemaids, one by 
one, crept up yawning to their attics; and not a female head 
in the inn was laid on a pillow that night without dreaming 
of the bold dragoon. 

My grandfather, for his part, got into bed, and drew over 
him one of those great bags of down, under which they 
smother a man in the Low Countries; and there he lay, 
melting between two feather beds, like an anchovy sandwich 
between two slices of toast and butter. He was a warm 


complexioned man, and this smothering played the very deuce 


52 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


with him. So, sure enough, in a little time it seemed as if a 
legion of imps were twitching at him, and all the blood in his 
veins was in a fever heat. 

He lay still, however, until all the house was quiet, except- 
ing the snoring of the Mynheers from the different chambers ; 
who answered one another in all kinds of tones and cadences, 
like so many bull-frogs in a swamp. The quieter the house 
became, the more unquiet became my grandfather. He 
waxed warmer and warmer, until at length the bed became 
too hot to hold him. 

“ May be the maid had warmed it too much?” said the 
curious gentleman, inquiringly. 

“TY rather think the contrary,” replied the Irishman. 
“ But, be that as it may, it grew too hot for my grandfather.” 

“ Faith, there’s no standing this any longer,” says he. So 
he jumped out of bed and went strolling about the house. 

“What for ?” said the inquisitive gentleman. 

“ Why to cool himself, to be sure—or perhaps to find a 
more comfortable bed—or perhaps—But no matter what he 
went for—he never mentioned—and there’s no use in taking 
up our time in conjecturing.” 

Well, my grandfather had been for some time absent from 
his room, and was returning, perfectly cool, when just as he 
reached the door, he heard a strange noise within. He paused 
and listened. It seemed as if some one were trying to hum 
a tune in defiance of the asthma. He recollected the report 
of the room being haunted ; but he was no believer in ghosts, 
so he pushed the door gently open and peeped in. 

Egad, gentlemen, there was a gambol carrying on within 


enough to have astonished St. Anthony himself. By the light 


THE BOLD DRAGOON. 53 


of the fire he saw a pale weazen-faced fellow, in a long flannel 
gown and a tall white night-cap with a tassel to it, who sat by 
the fire with a bellows under his arm by way of bagpipe, from 
which he forced the asthmatical music that had bothered my 
grandfather. As he played, too, he kept twitching about with 
a thousand queer contortions, nodding his head, and bobbing 
about his tasselled night-cap. 

My grandfather thought this very odd and mighty pre- 
sumptuous, and was about to demand what business he had to 
play his wind instrument in another gentleman’s quarters, 
when a new cause of astonishment met his eye. From the 
opposite side of the room a long-backed, bandy-legged chair 
covered with leather, and studded all over in a coxcombical 
fashion with little brass nails, got suddenly into motion, thrnst 
out first a claw-foot, then a crooked .rm, and at length, mak- 
ing a leg, slided gracefully up to an easy chair of tarnished 
brocade, with a hole in its bottom, and led it gallantly out in 
a ghostly minuet about the floor. 

The musician now played fiercer and fiercer, and bobbed 
his head and his night-cap about like mad. By degrees the 
dancing mania seemed to seize upon all the other pieces of 
furniture. The antique, long-bodied chairs paired off in 
couples and led down a country dance; a three-legged stool 
danced a hornpipe, though horribly puzzled by its super- 
numerary limb; while the amorous tongs seized the shovel 
round the waist, and whirled it about the room in a German 
waltz. In short, all the movables got in motion: pirouctting 
hands across, right and left, like so many devils; all except a 
great clothes-press, which kept courtesying and courtesying in 


a corner, like a dowager, in exquisite time to the music; being 


54 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


rather too corpulent to dance, or, perhaps at a loss for a 
partner. 

My grandfather concluded the latter to be the reason; so 
being, like a true Irishman, devoted to the sex, and at all 
times ready for a frolic, he bounced into the room, called to 
the musician to strike up Paddy O’Rafferty, capered up to the 
clothes-press, and seized upon the two handles to lead her 


out: when—whirr ! the whole revel was at an end. The 


chairs, tables, tongs and shovel, slunk in an instant as quietly 
into their places as if nothing had happened, and the musician 
vanished up the chimney, leaving the bellows behind him in 
his hurry. My grandfather found himself seated in the middle 
of the floor with the clothes-press sprawling before him, and 
the two handles jerked off, and in his hands. 

“Then, after ail, this "vas a mere dream !”’ said the inquis- 
itive gentleman. 

“The divil a bit of a dream!” replied the Irishman. 
“There never was a truer fact in this world. Faith, I should 
have liked to see any man tell my grandfather it was a 
dream.” 

Well, gentlemen, as the clothes-press was a mighty heavy 
body, and my grandfather likewise, particularly in rear, you 
may easily suppose that two such heavy bodies coming to the 
ground would make a bit of a noise. Faith, the old mansion 
shook as though it had mistaken it for an earthquake. The 
whole garrison was alarmed. The landlord, who slept below, 
hurried up with a candle to inquire the cause, but with all his 
haste his daughter had arrived at the scene of uproar before 
him. The landlord was followed by the landlady, who was 
followed by the bouncing bar-maid, who was followed by the 


THE BOLD DRAGOON. 55 


simpering chambermaids, all holding together, as well as they 
could, such garments as they first laid hands on; but all ina 
terrible hurry to see what the deuce was to pay in the chamber 
of the bold dragoon. 

My grandfather related the marvellous scene he had wit- 
nessed, and the broken handles of the prostrate clothes-press 
bore testimony to the fact. There was no contesting such 
evidence ; particularly with a lad of my grandfather’s com- 
plexion, who seemed able to make good every word either 
with sword or shillelah. So the landlord scratched his head 
and looked silly, as he was apt to do when puzzled. The 
landlady scratched—no, she did not scratch her head, but she 
knit her brow, and did not seem half pleased with the expla- 
nation. But the landlady’s daughter corroborated it by 
recollecting that the last person who had dwelt in that cham- 
ber was a famous juggler who died of St. Vitus’s dance, and 
had no doubt infected all the furniture. 

This set all things to rights, particularly when the chamber- 
maids declared that they had all witnessed strange carryings 
on in that room; and as they declared this “upon their 
honors,” there could not remain a doubt upon the subject. 

“ And did your grandfather go to bed again in that room ?” 
said the inquisitive gentleman. 

“ That’s more than I can tell. Where he passed the rest of 
the night was a secret he never disclosed. In fact, though he 
had seen much service, he was but indifferently acquainted 
with geography, and apt to make blunders in his travels about 
inns at night, which it would have puzzled him sadly to account 


for in the morning.” 


56 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


“ ‘Was he ever apt to walk in his sleep?” said the knowing 
old gentleman. 

“ Never that I heard of.” 

There was a little pause after this rigmarole Irish romance, 
when the old gentleman with the haunted head observed, that 
the stories hitherto related had rather a burlesque tendency. 
“T recollect an adventure, however,” added he, “ which I heard 
of during a residence at Paris, for the truth of which I can 
undertake to vouch, and which is of a very grave and singular 


nature.” 


ADVENTURE OF THE GERMAN STUDENT. 


N a stormy night, in the tempestuous times of the French 
revolution, a young German was returning to his lodg- 
ings, at a late hour, across the old part of Paris. The lightning 
gleamed, and the loud claps of thunder rattled through the 
lofty narrow streets—but I should first tell you something 
about this young German. 

Gottfried Wolfgang was a young man of good family. He 
had studied for some time at Gottingen, but being of a vision- 
ary and enthusiastic character, he had wandered into those 
wild and speculative doctrines which have so often bewildered 
German students. His secluded life, his intense application, 
and the singular nature of his studies, had an effect on both 
mind and body. His health was impaired; his imagination 
diseased. He had been indulging in fanciful speculations on 
spiritual essences, until, like Swedenborg, he had an ideal 
world of his own around him. He took up a notion, I do not 
know from what cause, that there was an evil “influence hang- 
ing over him; an evil genius or spirit seeking to ensnare him 
and ensure his perdition. Such an idea working on his melan- 
choly temperament, produced the most gloomy effects. He 
became haggard and desponding. His friends discovered the 
mental malady preying upon him, and determined that the 

# 


58 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


best cure was a change of scene; he was sent, therefore, to 
finish his studies amidst the splendors and gayeties of Paris. 

Wolfgang arrived at Paris at the breaking out of the revo- 
lution. The popular delirium at first caught his enthusiastic 
mind, and he was captivated by the political and philosophical 
theories of the day: but the scenes of blood which followed 
shocked his sensitive nature, disgusted him with society and 
the world, and made him more than ever a recluse. He shut 
himself up in a solitary apartment in the Pays Latin, the 
quarter of students. There, in a gloomy street not far from 
the monastic walls of the Sorbonne, he pursued his favorite 
speculations. Sometimes he spent hours together in the great 
libraries of Paris, those catacombs of departed authors, rum- 
maging among their hoards of dusty and obsolete works in 
quest of food for his unhealthy appetite. He was, in a man- 
ner, a literary ghoul, feeding in the charnel-house of decayed 
literature. 

Wolfgang, though solitary and recluse, was of an ardent 
temperament, but for a time it operated merely upon his 
imagination. He was too shy and ignorant of the world to 
make any advances to the fair, but he was a passionate admirer 
of female beauty, and in his lonely chamber would often lose 
himself in reveries on forms and faces which he had seen, and 
his fancy would deck out images of loveliness far surpassing 
the reality. 

While his mind was in this excited and sublimated state, a 
dream produced an extraordinary effect upon him. It was of 
a female face of transcendent beauty. So strong was the 
impression made, that he dreamt of it again and again. It 


haunted his thoughts by day, his slumbers by night; in fine, 


THE GERMAN STUDENT. 59 


he became passionately enamoured of this shadow of a dream. 
This lasted so long that it became one of those fixed ideas 
which haunt the minds of melancholy men, and are at times 
mistaken for madness. 

Such was Gottfried Wolfgang, and suck his situation at 
the time I mentioned. He was returning home late one 
stormy night, through some of the old and gloomy streets of 
the Marais, the ancient part of Paris. The loud claps of 
thunder rattled among the high houses of the narrow streets. 
He came to the Place de Gréve, the square where public ex- 
ecutions are performed. The lightning quivered about the 
pinnacles of the ancient Hétel de Ville, and shed flickering 
gleams over the open space in front. As Wolfgang was 
crossing the square, he shrank back with horror at finding him- 
self close by the guillotine. It was the height of the reign of 
terror, when this dreadful instrument of death stood ever 
ready, and its scaffold was continually running with the blood 
of the virtuous and the brave. It had that very day been 
actively employed in the work of carnage, and there it stood 
in grim array, amidst a silent and sleeping city, waiting for 
fresh victims. 

Wolfgang’s heart sickened within him, and he was turning 
shuddering from the horrible engine, when he beheld a shadowy 
form, cowering as it were at the foot of the steps which led up 
to the scaffold. A succession of vivid flashes of lightning re- 
vealed it more distinctly. It was a female figure, dressed in 
black. She was seated on one of the lower steps of the scaf- 
fold, leaning forward, her face hid in her lap; and her long 
dishevelled tresses hanging to the ground, streaming with the 
rain which fell in torrents. Wolfgang paused. There was 


60 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


something awful in this solitary monument of woe. The 
female had the appearance of being above the common order. 
He knew the times to be full of vicissitude, and that many a 
fair head, which had once been’ pillowed on down, now wan- 
dered houseless. Perhaps this was some poor mourner whom 
the dreadful axe had rendered desolate, and who sat here 
heart-broken on the strand of existence, from which all that 
was dear to her had been launched into eternity. 

He approached, and addressed her in the accents of sym- 
pathy. She raised her head and gazed wildly at him. What 
was his astonishment at beholding, by the bright glare of the - 
lightning, the very face which had haunted him in his dreams. 
It was pale and disconsolate, but ravishingly beautiful. 

Trembling with violent and conflicting emotions, Wolfgang 
again accosted her. He spoke something of her being exposed 
at such an hour of the night, and to the fury of such a storm, 
and offered to conduct her to her friends. She-pointed to the 
guillotine with a gesture of dreadful signification. 

“| have no friend on earth!” said she. 

“ But you have a home,” said Wolfgang. 

“ Yes—in the grave!” 

The heart of the student melted at the words. 

“ If a stranger dare make an offer,” said he, “ without dan- 
ger of being misunderstood, I would offer my humble dwelling 
as a shelter; myself as a devoted friend. I am friendless 
myself in Paris, and a stranger in the land; but if my life 
could be of service, it is at your disposal, and should be sacri- 
ficed before harm or indignity should come to you.” 

There was an honest earnestness in the young man’s 


manner that had its effect. His foreign accent, too, was in 


THE GERMAN STUDENT. 61 


his favor; it showed him not to be a hackneyed inhabitant of 
Paris. Indeed, there is an eloquence in true enthusiasm that 
is not to be doubted. The homeless stranger confided herself 
implicitly to the protection of the student. 

He supported her faltering steps across the Pont Neuf, and 
by the place where the statue of Henry the Fourth had been 
overthrown by the populace. The storm had abated, and the 
thunder rumbled at a distance. All Paris was quiet; that 
great volcano of human passion slumbered for a while, to 
gather fresh strength for the next day’s eruption. The student 
conducted his charge through the ancient streets of the Pays 
Latin, and by the dusky walls of the Sorbonne, to the great 
dingy hotel which he inhabited. The old portress who ad- 
mitted them stared with surprise at the unusual sight of the 
melancholy Wolfgang with a female companion. 

On entering his apartment, the student, for the first time, 
blushed at the scantiness and indifference of his dwelling. 


He had but one chamber—an old-fashioned saloon—heavily 


carved, and fantastically furnished with the remains of former 
magnificence, for it was one of those hotels in the quarter of 
the Luxembourg palace, which had once belonged to nobility. 
It was lumbered with books and papers, and all the usual 
apparatus of a student, and his bed stood in a recess at one 
end. 

When lights were brought, and Wolfgang had a better 
opportunity of contemplating the stranger, he was more than 
ever intoxicated by her beauty. Her face was pale, but of a 
dazzling fairness, set off by a profusion of raven hair that hung 
clustering about it. Her eyes were large and brilliant, with a 


singular expression approaching almost to wildness. As far 
* 


62 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


as her black dress permitted her shape to be seen, it was of 
perfect symmetry. Her whole appearance was highly striking, 
though she was dressed in the simplest style. The only thing 
approaching to an ornament which she wore, was a broad black 
band round her neck, clasped by diamonds. 

The perplexity now commenced with the student how to 
dispose of the helpless being thus thrown upon his protection. 
He thought of abandoning his chamber to her, and seeking 
shelter for himself elsewhere. Still he was so fascinated by 
her charms, there seemed to be such a spell upon his thoughts 
and senses, that he could not tear himself from her presence. 
Her manner, too, was singular and unaccountable. She spoke 
no more of the guillotine. Her grief had abated. The atten- 
tions of the student had first won her confidence, and then, 
apparently, her heart. She was evidently an enthusiast like 
himself, and enthusiasts soon understand each other. 

In the infatuation of the moment, Wolfgang avowed his 
passion for her. He told her the story of his mysterious 
dream, and how she had possessed his heart before he had 
even seen her. She was strangely affected by his recital, and 
acknowledged to have felt an impulse towards him equally 
unaccountable. It was the time for wild theory and wild 
actions. Old prejudices and superstitions were done away ; 
every thing was under the sway of the “ Goddess of Reason.” 
Among other rubbish of the old times, the forms and cere- 
monies of marriage began to be considered superfluous bonds 
for honorable minds. Social compacts were the vogue. 
Wolfgang was too much of a theorist not to be tainted by the 
liberal doctrines of the day. 

“Why should we separate?” said he: “ our hearts are 


THE GERMAN STUDENT. 63 


united ; in the eye of reason and honor we areas one. What 
need is there of sordid forms to bind high souls together ? ” 

The stranger listened with emotion: she had evidently 
received illumination at the same school. 

“You have no home nor family,” continued he; “let me 
be every thing to you, or rather let us be every thing to one 
another. If form is necessary, form shall be observed—there 
is my hand. I pledge myself to you for ever.” 

“For ever?” said the stranger, solemnly. 

“Tor ever!” repeated Wolfgang. 

The stranger clasped the hand extended to her: “ then I 
am yours,’ murmured sue, and sank upon his bosom. 

The next morning the student left his bride sleeping, and 
sallied forth at an early hour to seek more spacious apartments 
suitable to the change in his situation. When he returned, 
he found the stranger lying with her head hanging over the 
bed, and one arm thrown over it. He spoke to her, but re- 
ceived no reply. Headvanced to awaken her from her uneasy 
posture. On taking her hand, it was cold—there was no pul- 
sation—her face was pallid and ghastly.—In a word she was 
a corpse. 

Horrified and frantic, he alarmed the house. A scene of 
confusion ensued. The police was summoned. As the officer 
of police entered the room, he started back on beholding the 
corpse. 

“ Great heaven!” cried he, “how did this woman come 
here:?” 

“Do you know any thing about her?” said Wolfgang, 
cagerly. 


64 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


“Do 1?” exclaimed the officer: “she was guillotined 
yesterday.” 

He stepped forward; undid the black collar round the 
neck of the corpse, and the head rolled on the floor ! 

The student burst into a frenzy. “The fiend! the fiend 
has gained possession of me!” shrieked he: “I am lost for 
ever.” 

They tried to soothe him, but in vain. He was possessed 
with the frightful belief that an evil spirit had reanimated the 
dead body to ensnare him. He went distracted, and died in 
a mad-house. 

Here the old gentleman with the haunted head finished his 
narrative. 

“ And is this really a fact?” said the inquisitive gentle- 
man. 

“ A fact not to be doubted,” replied the other. “I had it 
from the best authority. The student told it me himself. I 
saw him in a mad-house in Paris.” 


ADVENTURE OF THE MYSTERIOUS PICTURE. 


S one story of the kind produces another, and as all the 
company seemed fully engrossed with the subject, and 
disposed to bring their relatives and ancestors upon the scene, 
there is no knowing how many more strange adventures we 
might have heard, had not a corpulent old fox-hunter, who 
had slept soundly through the whole, now suddenly awakened, 
with a loud and long-drawn yawn. The sound broke the 
charm: the ghosts took to flight, as though it had been cock- 
crowing, and there was a universal move for bed. 

« And now for the haunted chamber,” said the Irish Cap- 
tain, taking his candle. 

« Ay, who’s to be the hero of the night ?” said the gentle- 
man with the ruined head. 

“That we shall see in the morning,” said the old gentle- 
man with the nose: “ whoever looks pale and grizzly will 
have seen the ghost.” 

“Well, gentlemen,” said the Baronet, “there’s many a true 
thing said in jest—in fact, one of you will sleep in the room 
to-night———” 

“ What—a haunted room ?—a haunted room ?—I claim 
the adventure—and I—and I—and I,” said a dozen guests, 
talking and laughing at the same time. 


66 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


** No, no,” said mine host, “ there is a secret about one of 
my rooms on which I feel disposed to try an experi- 
ment: so, gentlemen, none of you shall know who has 
the haunted chamber until circumstances reveal it. I will 
not even know it myself, but will leave it to chance and 
the allotment of the housekeeper. At the same time, if it 
will be any satisfaction to you, I will observe, for the honor 
of my paternal mansion, that there’s scarcely a chamber in it 
but is well worthy of being haunted.” 

We now separated for the night, and each went to his al- 
lotted room. Mine was in one wing of the building, and I 
could not but smile at its resemblance in style to those event- 
ful apartments described in the tales of the supper-table. It 
was spacious and gloomy, decorated with lampblack portraits ; 
a bed of ancient damask, with a tester sufficiently lofty to grace 
a couch of state, and a number of massive pieces of old-fash- 
ioned furniture. I drew a great claw-footed arm-chair before 
the wide fireplace; stirred up the fire; sat looking into it, 
and musing upon the odd stories I had heard, until, partly 
overcome by the fatigue of the day’s hunting, and partly 
by the wine and wassail of mine host, I fell asleep in my 
chair. 

The uneasines of my position made my slumber troubled, 
and laid me at the mercy of all kinds of wild and fearful 
dreams. Now it was that my perfidious dinner and supper 
rose in rebellion against my peace. I was hag-ridden by a 
fat saddle of mutton ; a plum-pudding weighed like lead upon 
my conscience; the merry-thought of a capon filled me with 
horrible suggestions; and a devilled leg of a turkey stalked 
in all kinds of diabolical shapes through my imagination. In 


THE MYSTERIOUS PICTURE. 67 


short, I had a violent fit of the nightmare. Some strange in. 
definite evil seemed hanging over me which | could not avert; 
something terrible and loathsome oppressed me which I could 
not shake off. I was conscious of being asleep, and strove to 
rouse myself, but every effort redoubled the evil; until gasp- 
ing, struggling, almost strangling, I suddenly sprang bolt 
upright in my chair, and awoke. 

The light on the mantel-piece had burnt low, and the wick 
was divided; there was a great winding-sheet made by the 
dripping wax on the side towards me. The disordered taper 
emitted a broad flaring flame, and threw a strong light on a 
painting over the fireplace which I had not hitherto observed. 
It consisted merely of a head, or rather a face, staring full 
upon me, with an expression that was startling. It was with- 
out a frame, and at the first glance I could hardly persuade 
myself that it was not a real face thrusting itself out of the 
dark oaken panel. I sat in my chair gazing at it, and the 
more I gazed, the more it disquieted me. I had never before 
been affected in the same way by any painting. The emo- 
tions it caused were strange and indefinite. They were some- 
thing like what I have heard ascribed to the eyes of the 
basilisk, or like that mysterious influence in reptiles termed 
fascination. I passed my hand over my eyes several times, 
as if seeking instinctively to brush away the illusion—in vain. 
They instantly reverted to the picture, and its chilling, creep- 
ing influence over my flesh and blood was redoubled. I 
looked round the room on other pictures, either to divert my 
attention, or to see whether the same effect would be produced 
by them. Some of them were grim enough to produce the 


effect, if the mere grimness of the painting produced it.—No 


68 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


such thing—-my eye passed over them all with perfect indif 
ference, but the moment it reverted to this visage over the 
fireplace, it was as if an electric shock darted through me. 
The other pictures were dim and faded, but this one protruded 
from a plain background in the strongest relief, and with 
wonderful truth of coloring. The expression was that of 
agony—the agony of intense bodily pain; but a menace 
scowled upon the brow, and a few sprinklings of blood added 
to its ghastliness. Yet it was not all these characteristics ; it 
was some horror of the mind, some inscrutable antipathy 
awakened by this picture, which harrowed up my feelings. 

I tried to persuade myself that this was chimerical, that 
my brain was confused by the fumes of mine host’s good 
cheer, and in some measure by the odd stories about paint- 
ings which had been told at supper. I determined to shake 
off these vapors of the mind; rose from my chair; walked 
about the room; snapped my fingers; rallied myself; laughed 
aloud.—It was a forced laugh, and the echo of it in the old 
chamber jarred upon my ear.—I walked to the window, and 
tried to discern the landscape through the glass. It was pitch 
darkness, and a howling storm without; and as I heard the 
wind moan among the trees, I caught a reflection of this 
accursed visage in the pane of glass, as though it were staring 
through the window at me. Even the reflection of it was 
thrilling. 

How was this vile nervous fit, for such I now persuaded 
myself it was, to be conquered? I| determined to force my- 
self not to look at the painting, but to undress quickly and 
get into bed.—I began to undress, but in spite of every effort 
I could not keep myself from stealing a glance every now and 


THE MYSTERIOUS PICTURE. 69 


then at the picture; and a glance was sufficient to distress 
me. Even when my back was turned to it, the idea of this 
strange face behind me, peeping over my shoulder, was in- 
supportable. I threw off my clothes and hurried into bed, 
but still this visage gazed upon me. I had a full view of it in 
my bed, and for some time could not take my eyes from it. 
I had grown nervous to a dismal degree. I put out the light, 
and tried to force myself to sleep—all in vain. ‘The fire 
gleaming up a little threw an uncertain light about the room, 
leaving, however, the region of the picture in deep shadow. 
What, thought IJ, if this be the chamber about which mine 
host spoke as having a mystery reigning over it? I had 
taken his words merely as spoken in jest; might they have a 
real import? I looked around. The faintly lighted apartment 
had all the qualifications requisite for a haunted chamber. It 
began in my infected imagination to assume strange appear- 
ances—the old portraits turned paler and paler, and blacker 
and blacker ; the streaks of light and shadow thrown among 
the quaint articles of furniture gave them more singular 
shapes and characters.—There was a huge dark clothes-press 
of antique form, gorgeous in brass and lustrous with wax, 
that began to grow oppressive to me. 

“ Am I then,” thought I, “indeed the hero of the haunted 
room? Is there really a spell laid upon me, or is this all 
some contrivance of mine host to raise a laugh at my 
expense?” The idea of being hag-ridden by my own fancy 
all night, and then bantered on my haggard looks the next 
day, was intolerable ; but the very idea was sufficient to pro- 
duce the effect, and to render me still more nervous.— 


“ Pish,” said I, “it can be no such thing. How could my 


70 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


worthy host imagine that J, or any man, would be so worried 
by a mere picture? It is my own diseased imagination that 
torments me.” 

I turned in bed, and shifted from side to side to try to fall 
asleep ; but all in vain; when one cannot get asleep by lying 
quiet, it is‘seldom that tossing about will effect the purpose. 
The fire gradually went out, and left the room in darkness. 
Still I had the idea of that inexplicable countenance gazing 
and keeping watch upon me through the gloom—nay, what 
was worse, the very darkness seemed to magnify its terrors. 
It was like having an unseen enemy hanging about one in the 
night. Instead of having one picture now to worry me, I had 
a hundred. I fancied it in every direction—“ There it is,” 
thought J, “and there! and there! with its horrible and mys- 
terious expression still gazing and gazing on me! No—if I 
must suffer the strange and dismal influence, it were better 
face a single foe than thus be haunted by a thousand images 
of it.” 

Whoever has been in a state of nervous agitation, must 
know that the longer it continues the more uncontrollable it 
grows. ‘The very air of the chamber seemed at length in- 
fected by the baleful presence of this picture. I fancied it 
hovering over me. I almost felt the fearful visage from the 
wall approaching my face—it seemed breathing upon me. 
“This is not to be borne,” said I, at length, springing out of 
bed: “I can stand this no longer—I shall only tumble and 
toss about here all night ; make a very spectre of myself, and 
become the hero of the haunted chamber in good earnest. 
Whatever be the ill consequences, [ll quit this cursed room 


and seek a night’s rest elsewhere—they can but laugh at me, 


THE MYSTERIOUS PICTURE. vi 


at all events, and they’ll be sure to have the laugh upon me if 
I pass a sleepless night, and show them a haggard and wobe- 
gone visage in the morning.” 

All this was half-muttered to myself as I hastily slipped 
on my clothes, which having done, I groped my way out of 
the room and down stairs to the drawing-room. Here, after 
tumbling over two or three pieces of furniture, I made out to 
reach a sofa, and stretching myself upon it, determined to 
bivouac there for the night. The moment I found myself out 
of the neighborhood of that strange picture, it seemed as if 
the charm were broken. All its influence was at an end. I 
felt assured that it was confined to its own dreary chamber, 
for I had, with a sort of instinctive caution, turned the key 
when I closed the door. I soon calmed down, therefore, into 
a state of tranquillity ; from that into a drowsiness, and final- 
ly, into a deep sleep; out of which I did not awake until the 
housemaid, with her besom and her matin song, came to put 
the room in order. She stared at finding me stretched upon 
the sofa, but I presume circumstances of the kind were not 
uncommon after hunting-dinners in her master’s bachelor 
establishment, for she went on with her song and her work, 
and took no further heed of me. 

I had an unconquerable repugnance to return to my 
chamber ; so I found my way to the butler’s quarters, made 
my toilet in the best way circumstances would permit, and 
was among the first to appear at the breakfast-table. Our 
breakfast was a substantial fox-hunter’s repast, and the com- 
pany generally assembled at it. When ample justice had 
been done to the tea, coffee, cold meats, and humming ale, for 


all these were furnished in abundance, according to the tastes 


72 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


of the different guests, the conversation began to break out 
with all the liveliness and freshness of morning mirth. 

“ But who is the hero of the haunted chamber—who has 
seen the ghost last night?” said the inquisitive gentleman, 
rolling his lobster eyes about the table. 

The question set every tongue in motion; a vast deal of 
bantering, criticizing of countenances, of mutual accusation 
and retort took place. Some had drunk deep, and some were 
unshaven, so that there were suspicious faces enough in the 
assembly. I alone could not enter with ease and vivacity 
into the joke—I felt tongue-tied, embarrassed. A recollection 
of what I had seen and felt the preceding night still haunted 
my mind, It seemed as if the mysterious picture still held a 
thrall upon me. I thought also that our host’s eye was 
turned on me with an air of curiosity. In short, I was con- 
scious that I was the hero of the night, and felt as if every 
one might read it in my looks. The joke, however, passed 
over, and no suspicion seemed to attach to me. I was just 
congratulating myself on my escape, when a servant came in 
saying, that the gentleman who had slept on the sofa in the 
drawing-room had left his watch under one of the pillows. 
My repeater was in his hand. 

“ What!” said the inquisitive gentleman, “ did any gentle- 
man sleep on the sofa?” 


‘Soho! soho! a hare 


a hare!” cried the old gentleman 
with the flexible nose. 

I could not avoid acknowledging the watch, and was rising 
in great confusion, when a boisterous old squire who sat 
beside me: exclaimed, slapping me on the shoulder, “ ’Sblood, 


lad, thou art the man as has seen the ghost ! ” 


THE MYSTERIOUS PICTURE. 73 


The attention of the company was immediately turned on 
me: if my face had been pale the moment before, it now 
glowed almost to burning. I tried to laugh, but could only 
make a grimace, and found the muscles of my face twitching 
at sixes and sevens, and totally out of all control. 

It takes but little to raise a laugh among a set of fox- 
hunters ; there was a world of merriment and joking on the 
subject, and as I never relished a joke overmuch when it was 
at my own expense, I began to feel a little nettled. I tried 
to look cool and calm, and to restrain my pique; but the 
coolness and calmness of a man in a passion are confounded 
treacherous. 

“Gentlemen,” said I, with a slight cocking of the chin and 
a bad attempt at a smile, “this is all very pleasant—ha! ha! 
—very pleasant—but I’d have you know, I am as little super- 
stitious as any of you—ha! ha!—and as to any thing like 
timidity—-you may smile, gentlemen, but I trust there’s no 
one here means to insinuate, that—as to a room’s being 
haunted—I repeat, gentlemen, (growing a little warm at 
seeing a cursed grin breaking out around me,) as to a room’s 
being haunted, I have as little faith in such silly stories as any 
one. But, since you put the matter home to me, I will say 
that I have met with something in my room strange and in- 
explicable to me. (A shout of laughter.) Gentlemen, I am 
serious ; I know well what I am saying; I am calm, gentle- 
men, (striking my fist upon the table,) by Heaven, I am 
calm. Iam neither trifling, nor do I wish to be trifled with. 
(The laughter of the company suppressed, and with ludicrous 
attempts at gravity.) There is a picture in the room in 


4 


74 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


which I was put last night, that has had an effect upon me the 
most singular and incomprehensible.” 

“A picture?” said the old gentleman with the haunted 
head, “A picture!” cried the narrator with the nose, “ A 
picture! a picture!” echoed several voices. Here there was 
an ungovernable peal of laughter. I could not contain my- 
self. I started up from my seat; looked round on the com- 
pany with fiery indignation; thrust both of my hands into 
my pockets, and strode up to one of the windows as though I 
would have walked through it. I stopped short, looked out 
upon the landscape without distinguishing a feature of it, and 
felt my gorge rising almost to suffocation. 

Mine host saw it was time to interfere. He had main- 
tained an air of gravity through the whole of the scene; 

nd now stepped forth, as if to shelter me from the over- 
whelming merriment of my companions. 

“ Gentlemen,” said he, “I dislike to spoil sport, but you 
have had your laugh, and the joke of the haunted chamber 
has been enjoyed. 1 must now take the part of my guest. I 
must not only vindicate him from your pleasantries, but I 
must reconcile him to himself, for I suspect he is a little out 
of humor with his own feelings; and, above all, I must crave 
his pardon for having made him the subject of a kind of ex- 
periment. Yes, gentlemen, there is something strange and 
peculiar in the chamber to which our friend was shown last 
night ; there is a picture in my house, which possesses a sin- 
gular and mysterious influence, and with which there is con- 
nected a very curious story. It is a picture to which I attach 
a value from a variety of circumstances; and though I have 


often been tempted to destroy it, from the odd and uncom- 


THE MYSTERIOUS PICTURE. 5 


fortable sensations which it produces in every one that beholds 
it, yet I have never been able to prevail upon myself to make 
the sacrifice. It is a picture I never like to look upon myself, 
and which is held in awe by all my servants. I have there- 
fore banished it to a room but rarely used, and should have 
had it covered last night, had not the nature of our conversa- 
tion, and the whimsical talk about a haunted chamber, 
tempted me to let it remain, by way of experiment, to see 
whether a stranger, totally unacquainted with its story, would 
be affected by it.” 

The words of the Baronet had turned every thought into a 
different channel. All were anxious to hear the story of the 
mysterious picture; and, for myself, so strangely were my 
feelings interested, that I forgot to feel piqued at the experi- 
ment my host had made upon my nerves, and joined eagerly 
in the general entreaty. As the morning was stormy, and 
denied all egress, my host was glad of any means of enter- 
taining his company; so, drawing his arm-chair towards the 


fire he began.— 


ADVENTURE OF THE MYSTERIOUS 
STRANGER. 


ANY years since, when I was a young man, and had just 
At” left Oxford, I was sent on the grand tour to finish my 
education. I believed my parents had tried in vain to inocu- 
late me with wisdom; so they sent me to mingle with society, 
in hopes that I might take it the natural way. Such, at least, 
appears the reason for which nine-tenths of our youngsters 
are sent abroad. In the course of my tour I remained some 
time at Venice. The romantic character of that place delight- 
ed me; I was very much amused by the air of adventure and 
intrigue prevalent in this region of masks and gondolas ; and 
I was exceedingly smitten by a pair of languishing black eyes, 
that played upon my heart from under an Italian mantle; so 
I persuaded myself that I was lingering at Venice to study 
men and manners; at least I persuaded my friends so, and 
that answered all my purposes. 

I was a little prone to be struck by peculiarities in charac- 
ter and conduct, and my imagination was so full of romantic 
associations with Italy that I was always on the look-out for 
adventure. Every thing chimed in with such a humor in this 
old mermaid of a city. My suite of apartments were in a 
proud, melancholy palace on the grand canal, formerly the 
residence of a magnifico, and sumptuous with the traces of 


THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER. 17 


decayed grandeur. My gondolier was one of the shrewdest 
of his class, active, merry, intelligent, and, like his brethren, 
secret as the grave; that is to say, secret to all the world ex- 
cept his master. I had not had him a week before he put me 
behind all the curtains in Venice. I liked the silence and 
mystery of the place, and when I sometimes saw from my 
window a black gondola gliding mysteriously along in the 
dusk of the evening, with nothing visible but its little glim- 
mering lantern, I would jump into my own zendeletta, and 
give a signal for pursuit— But I am running away from my 
subject with the recollection of youthful follies,’ said the 
Baronet, checking himself. “ Let us come to the point.” 
Among my familiar resorts was a cassino under the ar- 
cades on one side of the grand square of St. Mark. Here I 
used frequently to lounge and take my ice, on those warm 
summer nights, when in Italy everybody lives abroad until 
morning. I was seated here one evening, when a group of 
Italians took their seat at a table on the opposite side of the 
saloon. Their conversation was gay and animated, and car- 
ried on with Italian vivacity and gesticulation. I remarked 
among them one young man, however, who appeared to take 
no share, and find no enjoyment in the conversation, though 
he seemed to force himself to attend to it. He was tall and 
slender, and of extremely prepossessing appearance. His 
features were fine, though emaciated. He had a profusion of 
black glossy hair, that curled lightly about his head, and con- 
trasted with the extreme paleness of his countenance. His 
brow was haggard; deep furrows seemed to have becn 
ploughed into his visage by care, not by age, for he was evi- 
dently in the prime of youth. His eye was full of expression 


%8 TALES OF A. TRAVELLER. 


and fire, but wild and unsteady. He seemed to be tormented 
by some strange fancy or apprehension. In spite of every 
effort to fix his attention on the conversation of his com- 
panions, I noticed that every now and then he would turn his 
head slowly round, give a glance over his shoulder, and 
then withdraw it with a sudden jerk, as if something painful 
met his eye. This was repeated at intervals of about a 
minute, and he appeared hardly to have recovered from one 
shock, before I saw him slowly preparing to encounter an- 
other. 

After sitting some time in the cassino, the party paid for 
the refreshment they had taken, and departed. The young 
man was the last to leave the saloon, and I remarked him 
glancing behind him in the same way, just as he passed out of 
the door. I could not resist the impulse to rise and follow 
him; for I was at an age when a romantic feeling of curiosity is 
easily awakened. The party walked slowly down the arcades, 
talking and laughing as they went. They crossed the Piazet- 
ta, but paused in the middle of it to enjoy the scene. It was 
one of those moonlight nights, so brilliant and clear in the 
pure atmosphere of Italy. The moonbeams streamed on the 
tall tower of St. Mark, and lighted up the magnificent front 
and swelling domes of the cathedral. The party expressed 
their delight in animated terms. I kept my eye upon the 
young man. He alone seemed abstracted and self-occupied. 
I noticed the same singular and, as it were, furtive glance over 
the shoulder, which had attracted my attention in the cassino. 
The party moved on, and I followed; they passed along the 
walk called the Broglio, turned the corner of the Ducal Palace, 
and getting into the gondola, glided swiftly away. 


THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER. "9 


The countenance and conduct of this young man dwelt upon 
my mind, and interested me exceedingly. I met him a day or 
two afterwards in a gallery of paintings. He was evidently a 
connoisseur, for he always singled out the most masterly pro- 
ductions, and a few remarks drawn from him by his compan- 
ions showed an intimate acquaintance with the art. His own 
taste, however, ran on singular extremes. On Salvator Rosa, 
in his most savage and solitary scenes ; on Raphael, Titian, and. 
Correggio, in their softest delineations of female beauty ; ‘on 
these he would occasionally gaze with transient enthusiasm. 
But this seemed only a momentary forgetfulness. Still would 
recur that cautious glance behind, and always quickly with- 
drawn, as though something terrible met his view. 

I encountered him frequently afterwards at the theatre, at 
balls, at concerts ; at promenades in the gardens of San Geor- 
gia; at the grotesque exhibitions in the square of St. Mark ; 
among the throng of merchants on the exchange by the Rialto. 
He seemed, in fact, to seek crowds; to hunt after bustle and 
amusement; yet never to take any interest in either the busi- 
ness or the gayety of the scene. Ever an air of painful 
thought, of wretched abstraction; and ever that strange and 
recurring movement of glancing fearfully over the shoulder. 
I did not know at first but this might be caused by apprehen- 
sion of arrest; or, perhaps, from dread of assassination. But 
if so, why should he go thus continually abroad ; why expose 
himself at all times and in all places ? 

I became anxious to know this stranger. I was drawn to 
him. by that romantic sympathy which sometimes draws 
young men towards each other. His melancholy threw a 
charm about him, no doubt: heightened by the touching ex- 


80 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


pression of his countenance, and the manly graces of his per- 
son; for manly beauty has its effect even upon men. I had an 
Englishman’s habitual diffidence and awkwardness to contend 
with; but from frequently meeting him in the cassinos, I 
gradually edged myself into his acquaintance. I had no re- 
serve on his part to contend with. He seemed, on the con- 
trary, to court society ; and, in fact, to seek any thing rather 
than be alone. 

When he found that I really took an interest in him, he 
threw himself entirely on my friendship. He clung to me 
like a drowning man. He would walk with me for hours up 
and down the place of St. Mark—or would sit, until night 
was far advanced, in my apartments. He took rooms under 
the same roof with me; and his constant request was that I 
would permit him, when it did not incommode me, to sit by 
me in my saloon. It was not that he seemed to take a par- 
ticular delight in my conversation, but rather that he craved 
the vicinity of a human being ; and, above all, of a being that 
sympathized with him. “I have often heard,” said he, “ of the 
sincerity of Englishmen—thank God I have one at length for 
a friend !” 

Yet he never seemed disposed to avail himself of my sym- 
pathy other than by mere companionship. He never sought 
to unbosom himself to me: there appeared to be a settled 
corroding anguish in his bosom that neither could be soothed 
“by silence nor by speaking.” 

A devouring melancholy preyed upon his heart, and seem- 
ed to be drying up the very blood in his veins. It was not a 
soft melancholy, the disease of the affections, but a parching, 
withering agony. I could see at times that his mouth was 


THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER. 81 


dry and feverish ; he panted rather than breathed ; his eyes 
were bloodshot; his cheeks pale and livid; with now and 
then faint streaks of red athwart them, baleful gleams of the 
fire that was consuming his heart. As my arm was within 
his, I felt him press it at times with a convulsive motion to 
his side; his hands would clinch themselves involuntarily, 
and a kind of shudder would run through his frame. . 

I reasoned with him about his melancholy, sought to draw 
from him the cause; he shrunk from all confiding: “ Do not 
seek to know it,” said he, “ you could not relieve it if you 
knew it; you would not even seek to relieve it. On the con- 
trary, I should lose your sympathy, and that,” said he, press- 
ing my hand convulsively, “that I feel has become too dear 
to me to risk.” 

I endeavored to awaken hope within him. He was young; 
life had a thousand pleasures in store for him; there was a 
healthy reaction in the youthful heart; it medicines all its 
own wounds—“ Come, come,” said I, “there is no grief so 
great that youth cannot outgrow it.”—“ No! no!” said he, 
“clinching his teeth, and striking repeatedly, with the energy 
of despair, on his bosom—“it*is here! here! deep-rooted ; 
draining my heart’s blood. It grows and grows, while my 
heart withers and withers. I have a dreadful monitor that 


and 


gives me no repose—that follows me step by step 
will follow me step by step, until it pushes me into my 
grave!” 

As he said this he involuntarily gave one of those fearful 
glances over his shoulder, and shrunk back with more than 
usual horror. I could not resist the temptation to allude to 


this movement, which I supposed to be some mere malady of 


4* 


82 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


the nerves. The moment I mentioned it, his face became 
crimsoned and convulsed; he grasped me by both hands— 

“For God’s sake,” exclaimed he, with a piercing voice, 
“never allude to that again—Let us avoid this subject, my 
friend ; you cannot relieve me, indeed you cannot relieve me, 
but you may add to the torments I suffer.—At some future 
day you shall know all.” 

I never resumed the subject ; for however much my curi- 
osity might be roused, I felt too true a compassion for his 
sufferings to increase them by my intrusion. I sought various 
ways to divert his mind, and to arouse him from the constant 
meditations in which he was plunged. He saw my efforts, 
and seconded them as far as in his power, for there was 
nothing moody or wayward in his nature. On the contrary, 
there was something frank, generous, unassuming, in his whole 
deportment. All the sentiments he uttered were noble and 
lofty. He claimed no indulgence, asked no toleration, but 
seemed content to carry his load of misery in silence, and 
only sought to carry it by my side. There was a mute be- 
seeching manner about him, as if he craved companionship as 
a charitable boon ; and a tacit thankfulness in his looks, as if 
he felt grateful to me for not repulsing him. 

I felt this melancholy to be infectious. It stole over my . 
spirits; interfered with all my gay pursuits, and gradually 
saddened my life; yet I could not prevail upon myself to 
shake off a being who seemed to hang upon me for support. 
In truth, the generous traits of character which beamed 
through all his gloom penetrated to my heart. His bounty 
was lavish and open-handed ; his charity melting and ‘sponta- 


ucous ; not confined to mere donations, which humiliate as 


THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER. 83 


much as they relieve. The tone of his voice, the beam of his 
eye, enhanced every gift and surprised the poor supplant 
with that rarest and sweetest of charities, the charity not 
merely of the hand, but of the heart. Indeed his liberality 
seemed to have something in it of self-abasement and expi- 
ation. He, in a manner, humbled himself before the mendi- 
cant. “ What right have I to ease and affluence ”—would he 
murmur to himself—“ when innocence wanders in misery and 
rags 2?” 

The carnival time arrived. I hoped the gay scenes then 

presented might have some cheering effect. I mingled with 
him in the motley throng that crowded the place of St. Mark. 
We frequented operas, masquerades, balls—all in vain. The 
evil kept growing on him. He became more and more haggard 
and agitated. Often, after we have returned from one of these 
‘scenes of revelry, I have entered his room and found him 
lying on his face on the sofa; his hands clinched in his fine 
hair, and his whole countenance bearing traces of the convul- 
sions of his mind. 

The carnival passed away ; the time of Lent succeeded ; 
passion week arrived ; we attended one evening a solemn ser- 
vice in one of the churches, in the course of which a grand 
piece of vocal and instrumental music was performed, relating 
to the death of our Saviour. 

[ had remarked that he was always powerfully affected by 
music ; on this occasion he was so in an extraordinary degree, 
As the pealing notes swelled through the lofty aisles, he 
seemed to kindle with fervor; his eyes rolled upwards, until 
nothing but the whites were visible; his hands were clasped 


together, until the fingers were deeply imprinted in the flesh, 


84 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


When the music expressed the dying agony, his face gradually 
sank upon his knees; and at the touching words resounding 
through the church, “ Jesu mori,” sobs burst from him uncon- 
trolled—I had never seen him weep before. His had always 
been agony rather than sorrow. I augured well from the cir- 
cumstance, and let him weep on uninterrupted. When the 
service was ended, we left the church. He hung on my arm 
as we walked homewards with something of a softer and more 
subdued manner, instead of that nervous agitation I had been 
accustomed to witness. He alluded to the service we had 
heard. ‘ Music,” said he, “is indeed the voice of, heaven ; 
never before have I felt more impressed by the story of the 
atonement of our Saviour.—Yes, my friend,” said he, clasping 
his hands with a kind of transport, “I know that my Re- 
deemer liveth!” 

We parted for the night. His room was not far from 
mine, and I heard him for some time busied in it. I fell 
asleep, but was awakened before daylight. The young man 
stood by my bedside, dressed for travelling. He held a sealed 
packet and a large parcel in his hand, which he laid on the table. 

“ Farewell, my friend,” said he, “I am about to set forth 
on a long journey ; but, before I go, I leave with you these 
remembrances. In this packet you will find the particulars 
of my story.—When you read them I shall be far away; do 
not remember me with aversion.—You have been indeed a 
friend to me.—You have poured oil into a broken heart, but 
you could not heal it.—Farewell! let me kiss your hand—I 
am unworthy to embrace you.” He sank on his knees— 
seized my hand in despite of my efforts to the contrary, and 


covered it with kisses. I was so surprised by all the scene, 


THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER. 85 


that I had not been able to say a word.—“ But we shall meet 
again,” said I hastily, as I saw him hurrying towards the door. 
“ Neyer, never, in this world!” said he solemnly.—He sprang 
once more to my bedside—seized my hand, pressed it to his 
heart and to his lips, and rushed out of the room. 

Here the Baronet paused. He seemed lost in thought, 
and sat looking upon the floor, and drumming with his fingers 
on the arm of his chair. 

“And did this mysterious personage return?” said the 
inquisitive gentleman. 

“ Never!” replied the Baronet, with a pensive shake of 
the head— I never saw him again.” 

“ And pray what has all this to do witlr the picture?” in- 
quired the old gentleman with the nose. . 

“True,” said the questioner—“ is it the portrait of that 
erack-brained Italian ?” 

“No,” said the Baronet, dryly, not half liking the appella- 
tion given to his hero—* but this picture was enclosed in the 
parcel he left with me. The sealed packet contained its ex- 
planation. There was a request on the outside -that I would 
not open it until six months had elapsed. I kept my promise 
in spite of my curiosity. I have a translation of it by me, and 
had meant to read it, by way of accounting for the mystery 
of the chamber ; but I fear I have already detained the com- 
pany too long.” 

Here there was a general wish expressed to have the 
manuscript read, particularly on the part of the inquisitive 
gentleman ; so the worthy Baronet drew out a fairly-written 
manuscript, and, wiping his spectacles, read aloud the follow. 


ing story.— | 
4* 


THE STORY OF THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 


WAS born at Naples. My parents, though of noble rank, 

were limited in fortune, or rather, my father was ostenta- 
tious beyond his means, and expended so much on his palace, 
his equipage, and his retinue, that he was continually straitened 
in his pecuniary circumstances. I was a younger son, and 
looked upon with indifference by my father, who, from a 
principle of family pride, wished to leave all his property to 
my elder brother. I showed, when quite a child, an extreme 
sensibility. Every thing affected me violently. While yet 
an infant in my mother’s arms, and before I had learned to 
talk, I could be wrought upon to a wonderful degree of anguish 
or delight by the power of music. As I grew older, my feel- 
ings remained equally acute, and I was easily transported into 
paroxysms of pleasure or rage. It was the amusement of my 
relations and of the domestics to play upon this irritable 
temperament. I was moved to tears, tickled to laughter, 
provoked to fury, for the entertainment of company, who were 
amused by such a tempest of mighty passion in a pigmy frame 
—they little thought, or perhaps little heeded the dangerous 
sensibilities they were fostering. I thus became a little crea- 


ture of passion before reason was developed. In a short time 


THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 87 


I grew too old to be a plaything, and then I became a torment. 
The tricks and passions I had been teased into became irksome, 
and I was disliked by my teachers for the very lessons they 
had taught me. My mother died; and my power asa spoiled 
child was at an end. There was no longer any necessity to 
humor or tolerate me, for there was nothing to be gained by 
it, as I was no favorite of my father. I therefore experienced 
the fate of a spoiled child in such a situation, and was neg- 
lected, or noticed only to be crossed and contradicted. Such 
was the early treatment of a heart, which, if I can judge of it 
at all, was naturally disposed to the extremes of tenderness 
and affection. 

My father, as I have already said, never liked me—in fact, 
he never understood me; he looked upon me as wilful and 
wayward, as deficient in natural affection.—It was the stateli- 
ness of his own manner, the loftiness and grandeur of his own 
look, which had repelled me from hisarms. L[always pictured 
him to myself as I-had seen him, clad in his senatorial robes, 
rustling with pomp and pride. The magnificence of his per- 
son daunted my young imagination. I could never approach 
him with the confiding affection of a child. 

My father’s feelings were wrapt up in my elder brother. 
He was to be the inheritor of the family title and the family 
dignity, and every thing was sacrificed to him—TI, as well as 
every thing else. It was determined to devote me to the 
church, that so my humors and myself might be removed out 
of the way, either of tasking my father’s time and trouble, or 
interfering with the interests of my brother. At an early age, 
therefore, before my mind had dawned upon the world and 


its delights, or known any thing of it beyond the precincts of 


88 TALES OF A TRAVELLER: 


my father’s palace, I was sent to a convent, the superior of 
which was my uncle, and was confided entirely to his care. 

My uncle was a man totally estranged from the world: 
he had never relished, for he had never tasted its pleasures ; 
and he regarded rigid self-denial as the great basis of Christian 
virtue. Heconsidered every one’s temperament like his own ; 
or at least he made them conform to it. His character and 
habits had an influence over the fraternity of which he was 
superior—a more gloomy, saturnine set of beings were never 
assembled together. The convent, too, was calculated to 
awaken sad. and solitary thoughts. It was situated in a 
gloomy gorge of those mountains away south of Vesuvius. 
All distant views were shut out by sterile volcanic heights. 
A mountain-stream raved beneath its walls, and eagles 
screamed about its turrets. 

I had been sent to this place at so tender an age as soon 
to lose all distinct recollection of the scenes I had left behind. 
As my mind expanded, therefore, it formed its idea of the 
world from the convent and its vicinity, and a dreary world 
it appeared to me. An early tinge of melancholy was thus 
infused into my character; and the dismal stories of the 
monks, about devils and evil spirits, with which they affrighted 
my young imagination, gave me a tendency to superstition 
which I could never effectually shake off. They took the same 
delight to work upon my ardent feelings, that had been so 
mischievously executed by my father’s household. I can 
recollect the horrors with which they fed my heated faney 
during an eruption of Vesuvius. We were distant from that 
volcano, with mountains between us ; but its convulsive throes 


shook the solid foundations of nature. Earthquakes threatened 


THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 89 


to topple down our convent towers. A lurid, baleful light 
hung in the heavens at night, and showers of ashes, borne by 
the wind, fell in our narrow valley. The monks talked of the 
earth being honey-combed beneath us; of streams of molten 
lava raging through its veins ; of caverns of sulphurous flames 
roaring in the centre, the abodes of demons and the damned ; 
of fiery gulfs ready to yawn beneath our feet. All these tales 
were told to the doleful accompaniment of the mountain’s 
thunders, whose low bellowing made the walls of our convent 
vibrate. 

One of the monks had been a painter, but had retired from 
the world, and embraced this dismal life in expiation of some 
crime. He was a melancholy man, who pursued his art in 
the solitude of his cell, but made it a source of penance to 
him. His employment was to portray, either on canvas or 
in waxen models, the human face and human form, in the 
agonies of death, and in all the stages of dissolution and decay. 
The fearful mysteries of the charnel-house were unfolded in 
his labors ; the loathsome banquet of the beetle and the worm. 
I turn with shuddering even from the recollection of his works, 
yet, at the time, my strong but ill-directed imagination seized 
with ardor upon his instructions in his art. Any thing was 
a variety from the dry studies and monotonous duties of the 
cloister. In a little while I became expert with my pencil, 
and my gloomy productions were thought worthy of decorating 
some of the altars of the chapel. | 

In this dismal way was a creature of feeling and fancy 
brought up. Every thing genial and amiable in my nature 
was repressed, and nothing brought out but what was un- 


profitable and ungracious. I was ardent inmy temperament ; 


90 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


quick, mercurial, impetuous, formed to be a creature all love 
and adoration ; but a leaden hand was laid on all my finer 
qualities. I was taught nothing but fear and hatred. I hated 
my uncle. I hated the monks. I hated the convent in which 
I was immured. I hated the world; and I almost hated my 
self for being, as J supposed, so hating and hateful an ani- 
mal. 

When I had nearly attained the age of sixteen, I was 
suffered, on one occasion, to accompany one of the brethren 
on a mission to a distant part of the country. We soon left 
behind us the gloomy valley in which I had been pent up for 
so many years, and after a short journey among the moun- 
tains, emerged upon the voluptuous landscape that spreads itself 
about the Bay of Naples. Heavens! how transported was I, 
when I stretched my gaze over a vast reach of delicious sunny 
country, gay with groves and vineyards: with Vesuvius 
rearing its forked summit to my right; the blue Mediter- 
ranean to my left, with its enchanting coast, studded with 
shining towns and sumptuous villas; and Naples, my native 
Naples, gleaming far, far in the distance. 

Good God! was this the lovely world from which I had 
been excluded! I had reached that age when the sensibilities 
are in all their bloom and freshness. Mine had been checked 
and chilled. They now burst forth with the suddenness of a 
retarded spring-time. My heart, hitherto unnaturally shrunk 
up, expanded into a riot of vague but delicious emotions. 
The beauty of nature intoxicated—bewildered me. The song 
of the peasants ; their cheerful looks; their happy avocations; 
the picturesque gayety of their dresses; their rustic music; 


their dances; all broke upon me like witchcraft. My soul 


THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 91 


responded to the music, my heart danced in my bosom. All 
the men appeared amiable, all the women lovely. 

I returned to the convent, that is to say, my body re- 
turned, but my heart and soul never entered there again. I[ 
could not forget this glimpse of a beautiful and a happy world 
—a world so suited to my natural character. I had felt so 
happy while in it; so different a being from what I felt myself 
when in the convent—that tomb of the living. I contrasted 
the countenances of the beings I had seen, full of fire and fresh- 
ness and enjoyment, with the pallid, leaden, lack-lustre visages 
of the monks: the dance with the droning chant of the chapel. 
I had before found the exercises of the cloister wearisome, 
they now became intolerable. The dull round of duties wore 
away my spirit; my nerves became irritated by the fretful 
tinkling of the convent-bell, evermore dinging among the 
mountain echoes, evermore calling me from my repose at 
night, my pencil by day, to attend to some tedious and me- 
chanical ceremony of devotion. 

I was not of a nature to meditate long without putting my 
thoughts into action. My spirit had been suddenly aroused, 
and was now all awake within me. I watched an opportunity, 
fled from the convent, and made my way on foot to Naples. 
As I entered its gay and crowded streets, and beheld the vari- 
ety and stir of life around me, the luxury of palaces, the © 
splendor of equipages, and the pantomimic animation of the 
motley populace, I seemed as if awakened to a world of en- 
chantment, and solemnly vowed that nothing should force me 
back to the monotony of the cloister. 

[had to inquire my way to my father’s palace, for I had 
been so young on leaving it that I knew not its situation. I 


92 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


found some difficulty in getting admitted to my father’s pres- 
ence; for the domestics scarcely knew that there was such a 
being as myself in existence, and my monastic dress did not 
operate in my favor. Even my father entertained no recol- 
lection of my person. I told him my name, threw myself at 
his feet, implored his forgiveness, and entreated that I might 
not be sent back to the convent. 

He received me with the condescension of a patron, rather 
than the fondness of a parent; listened patiently, but coldly, 
to my tale of monastic grievances and disgusts, and promised 
to think what else could be done for me. This coldness 
blighted and drove back all the frank affection of my nature, 
that was ready to spring forth at the least warmth of parental 
kindness. All my early feelings towards my father revived. 
I again looked up to him as the stately magnificent being that 
had daunted my childish imagination, and felt as if I had no 
pretensions to his sympathies. My brother engrossed all his 
care and love; he inherited his nature, and carried himself 
towards me with a protecting rather than a fraternal air. It 
wounded my pride, which was great. I could brook conde- 
scension from my father, for I looked up to him with awe, as 
a superior being; but I could not brook patronage from a 
brother, who I felt was intellectually my inferior. The ser- 
vants perceived that I was an unwelcome intruder in the 
paternal mansion, and, menial-like, they treated me with neg- 
lect. Thus baffled at every point, my affections outraged 
wherever they would attach themselves, I became sullen, 
silent, and desponding. My feelings, driven back upon my- 
self, entered and preyed upon my own heart. I remained for 


some days an unwelcome guest rather than a restored son in 


THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 93 


my father’s house. I was doomed never to be properly 
known there. [I was made, by wrong treatment, strange 
even to myself, and they judged of me from my strangeness. 

I was startled one day at the sight of one of the monks of 
my convent gliding out of my father’s room. He saw me, 
but pretended not to notice me, and this very hypocrisy made 
me suspect something. I had become sore and susceptible 
in my feelings, every thing inflicted a wound on them. In 
this state of mind, I was treated with marked disrespect by a 
pampered minion, the favorite servant of my father. All the 
pride and passion of my nature rose in an instant, and I struck 
him to the earth. My father was passing by; he stopped not 
to inquire the reason, nor indeed could he read the long 
course of mental sufferings which were the real cause. He 
rebuked me with anger and scorn ; summoning all the haughti- 
ness of his nature and grandeur of his look to give weight to 
the contumely with which he treated me. I felt that I had 
not deserved it. I felt that I was not appreciated. I felt that 
I had that within me which merited better treatment. My 
heart swelled against a father’s injustice. I broke through my 
habitual awe of him—TI replied to him with impatience. My 
hot spirit flushed in my cheek and kindled in my eye; but 
my sensitive heart swelled as quickly, and before I had half 
vented my passion, I felt it suffocated and quenched in my 
tears. My father was astonished and incensed at this turning 
of the worm, and ordered me to my chamber. I retired in 
silence, choking with contending emotions. 

I had not been long there when I overheard voices in 
an adjoining apartment. It was a consultation between my 


father and the monk, about the means of getting me back 


94. TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


quietly to the convent. My resolution was taken. I had no 
longer ahome nora father. That very night I left the paternal 
roof. I got on board a vessel about making sail from the 
harbor, and abandoned myself to the wide world. No matter 
to what port she steered; any part of so beautiful a world 
was better than my convent. No matter where I was cast by 
fortune ; any place would be more a home to me than the 
home I had left behind. The vessel was bound to Genoa, 
We arrived there after a voyage of a few days. 

As I entered the harbor between the moles which embrace 
it, and beheld the amphitheatre of palaces, and churches, and 
splendid gardens, rising one above another, | felt at once 
its title to the appellation of Genoa the Superb. I landed on 
_ the mole an utter stranger, without knowing what to do, or 
whither to direct my steps. No matter: I was released from 
the thraldom of the convent and the humiliations of home. 
When I traversed the Strada Balbi and the Strada Nuova, 
those streets of palaces, and gazed at the wonders of architec- 
ture around me; when I wandered at close of day amid a 
gay throng of the brilliant and the beautiful, through the green 
alleys of the Aqua Verde, or among the colonnades and ter- 
races of the magnificent Doria gardens; I thought it impos- 
sible to be ever otherwise than happy in Genoa. A few days 
sufficed to show me my mistake. My scanty purse was ex- 
hausted, and for the first time in my life I experienced the 
sordid distress of penury. I had never known the want of 
money, and had never adverted to the possibility of such an 
evil. I was ignorant of the world and all its ways; and when 
first the idea of destitution came over my mind, its effect was 
withering. I was wandering penniless through the streets 


THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 95 


which no longer delighted my eyes, when chance led my steps 
into the magnificent church of the Annunciata. 

A celebrated painter of the day was at that moment super- 
intending the placing of one of his pictures over an altar. 
The proficiency which I had acquired in his art during my 
residence in the convent, had made me an enthusiastic amateur. 
I was struck, at the first glance, with the painting. It was the 
face of a Madonna. So innocent, so lovely, such a divine 
expression of maternal tenderness! I lost, for the moment, all 
recollection of myself in the enthusiasm of my art. I clasped 
my hands together, and uttered an ejaculation of delight. 
The painter perceived my emotion, He was flattered and 
gratified by it. My air and manner pleased him, and he 
accosted me. I felt too much the want of friendship to repel 
the advances of a stranger; and there was something in this 
one so benevolent and winning, that in a moment he gained 
my confidence. 

I told him my story and my situation, concealing only my 
name and rank. He appeared strongly interested by my 
recital, invited me to his house, and from that time I became 
his favorite pupil. Ie thought he perceived in me: extra- 
ordinary talents for the art, and his encomiums awakened all 
my ardor. What a blissful period of my existence was it 
that I passed beneath his roof! Another being seemed created 
within me; or rather, all that was amiable and excellent was 
drawn out. I was as recluse as ever I had been at the convent, 
but how different was my seclusion? My time was spent in 
storing my mind with lofty and poetical ideas ; in meditating 
on all that was striking and noble in history and fiction ; in 
studying and tracing all that was sublime and beautiful in 


96 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


nature. I was always a visionary, imaginative being, but 
now my reveries and imaginings all elevated me to rapture. 
I looked up to my master as to a benevolent genius that had 
opened to me a region of enchantment. He was not a native 
of Genoa, but had been drawn thither by the solicitations of 
several of the nobility, and had resided there but a few years, 
for the completion of certain works. His health was delicate, 
and he had to confide much of the filling up of his designs to 
the pencils of his scholars. He considered me as particularly 
happy in delineating the human countenance ; in seizing upon 
characteristic though fleeting expressions, and fixing them 
powerfully upon my canvas. I was employed continually, 
therefore, in sketching faces, and often, when some particular 
grace or beauty of expression was wanted in a cuuntenance, 
it was intrusted to my pencil. My benefactor was fond of 
bringing me forward ; and partly, perhaps, through my actual 
skill, and partly through his partial praises, I began to be 
noted for the expressions of my countenances. 

Among the various works which he had undertaken, was 
an historical piece for one of the palaces of Genoa, in which 
were to be introduced the likenesses of several of the family. 
Among these was one intrusted to my pencil. It was that_ 
of a young girl, as yet in a convent for her education. She 
came out for the purpose of sitting for the picture. I first 
saw her in an apartment of one of the sumptuous palaces of 
Genoa. She stood before a casement that looked out upon 
the bay ; a stream of vernal sunshine fell upon her, and shed 
a kind of glory round her, as it lit up the rich crimson cham- 
ber. She was but sixteen years of age—and oh, how lovely! 
The scene broke upon me like a mere vision of spring and 


THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 97 


youth and beauty. I could have fallen down and worshipped 
her. She was like one of those fictions of poets and painters, 
when they would express the deau ideal that haunts their minds 
with shapes of indescribable perfection. I was permitted to 
watch her countenance in various positions, and I fondly pro- 
tracted the study that was undoing me. The more I gazed on 
her, the more I became enamoured; there was something 
almost painful in my intense admiration. I was but nineteen 
years of age, shy, diffident, and inexperienced. I was treated 
with attention by her mother; for my youth and my enthusiasm 
in my art had won favor for me; and I am inclined to think 
something in my air and manner inspired interest and respect. 
Still the kindness with which I was treated could not dispel 
the embarrassment into which my own imagination threw me 
when in presence of this lovely being. It elevated her into 
something almost more than mortal. She seemed too exqui- 
site for earthly use ; too delicate and exalted for human attain- 
ment. As I sat tracing her charms on my canvas, with my 
eyes occasionally riveted on her features, I drank in delicious 
poison that made me giddy. My heart alternately gushed 
with tenderness, and ached with despair. Now I became 
more than ever sensible of the violent fires that had lain dor- 
mant at the bottom of my soul. You who were born in a 
more temperate climate, and under a cooler sky, have little 
idea of the violence of passion in our southern bosoms. 

A few days finished my task. Bianca returned to her 
convent, but her image remained indelibly impressed upon 
my heart. It dwelt in my imagination; it became my per- 
vading idea of beauty. It had an effect even upon my pencil. 


I became noted for my felicity in depicting female loveliness : 
5 


98 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


it was but because I multiplied the image of Bianca. 1 
soothed and yet fed my fancy by introducing her in all the 
productions of my master. I have stood, with delight, in one 
of the chapels of the Annunciata, and heard the crowd extol 
the seraphic beauty of a saint which I had painted. I have 
seen them bow down in adoration before the painting; they 
were bowing before the loveliness of Bianca. 

I existed in this kind of dream, I might almost say deliri- 


um, for upwards of a year. Such is the tenacity of my 


imagination, that the image formed in it continued in all its - . 


power and freshness. Indeed, I was a solitary, meditative 
being, much given to reverie, and apt to foster ideas which 
had once taken strong possession of me. I was roused from 
this fond, melancholy, delicious dream by the death of my 
worthy benefactor. I cannot describe the pangs his death 
occasioned me. It left me alone, and almost broken-hearted. 
He bequeathed to me his little property, which, from the 
liberality of his disposition, and his expensive style of living, 
was indeed but small; and he most particularly recommended 
me, in dying, to the protection of a nobleman who had been 
his patron. 

The latter was a man who passed for munificent. He was 
a lover and an encourager of the arts, and evidently wished to 
be thought so. He fancied he saw in me indications of 
future excellence ; my pencil had already attracted attention ; 
he took me at once under his protection. Seeing that I was 
overwhelmed with grief, and incapable of exerting myself in 
the mansion of my late benefactor, he invited me to sojourn 
for a time at a villa which he possessed on the border of the 


sea, in the picturesque neighborhood of Sestri di Ponente. 


THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 99 


I found at the villa the count’s only son, Filippo. He 
was nearly of my age; prepossessing in his appearance, and 
fascinating in his manners, he attached himself to me, and 
seemed to court my good opinion. I thought there was 
something of profession in his kindness, and of caprice in his 
disposition ; but I had nothing else near me to attach myself 
to, and my heart felt the need of something to repose upon. 
His education had been neglected ; he looked upon me as his 
superior in mental powers and acquirements, and _ tacitly 
acknowledged my superiority. I felt that I was his equal in 
birth, and that gave independence to my manners, which had 
its effect. The caprice and tyranny I saw sometimes exercised 
on others, over whom he had power, were never manifested 
towards me. We became intimate friends and frequent com- 
panions. Still I loved to be alone, and to indulge in the reve- 
ries of my own imagination among the scenery by which I 
was surrounded. ‘The villa commanded a wide view of the 
Mediterranean, and of the picturesque Ligurian coast. It 
stood alone in the midst of ornamented grounds, finely 
decorated with statues and fountains, and laid out in groves 
and alleys and shady lawns. Every thing was assembled 
here that could gratify the taste, or agreeably occupy the 
mind. Soothed by the tranquillity of this elegant retreat, 
the turbulence of my feelings gradually subsided, and blend- 
ing with the romantic spell which still reigned over my 
imagination, produced a soft, voluptuous melancholy. 

I had not been long under the roof of the count, when our 
solitude was enlivened by another inhabitant. It was a 
daughter of a relative of the count, who had lately died in re- 


duced circumstances, bequeathing this only child to his pro- 


100 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


tection. I had heard much of her beauty from Filippo, but 
my fancy had become so engrossed by one idea of beauty, as 
not to admit of any other. We were in the central saloon of 
the villa when she arrived. She was still in mourning, and 
approached, leaning on the count’s arm. As they ascended 
the marble portico, I was struck by the elegance of her figure 
and movement, by the grace with which the mezzaro, the 
bewitching vail of Genoa, was folded about her slender 
form. They entered. Heavens! what was my surprise 
when I beheld Bianca before me! It was herself; pale with 
grief, but still more matured in loveliness than when I had 
last beheld her. The time that had elapsed had developed 
the graces of her person, and the sorrow she had under- 
gone had diffused over her countenance an irresistible ten- 
derness. 

She blushed and trembled at seeing me, and tears rushed 
into her eyes, for she remembered in whose company she had 
been accustomed to behold me. For my part, I cannot ex- 
press what were my emotions. By degrees I overcame the 
extreme shyness that had formerly paralyzed me in her 
presence. We were drawn together by sympathy of situa- 
tion. We had each lost our best friend in the world; we 
were each, in some measure, thrown upon the kindness of 
others. When I came to know her intellectually, all my 
ideal picturings of her were confirmed. Her newness to the 
world, her delightful susceptibility to every thing beautiful 
and agreeable in nature, reminded me of my own emotions 
when first I escaped from the convent. Her rectitude of 
thinking delighted my judgment ; the sweetness of her nature 


wrapped itself round my heart; and then her young, and 


THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 101 


tender, and budding loveliness, sent a delicious madness to 
my brain. 

I gazed upon her with a kind of idolatry, as something 
more than mortal; and I felt humiliated at the idea of my 
comparative unworthiness. Yet she was mortal; and one 
of mortality’s most susceptible and loving compounds ;—for 
she loved me! 

How first I discovered the transporting truth I cannot 
recollect. I believe it stole upon me by degrees as a wonder 
past hope or belief. We were both at sucha tender and loving 
age; in constant intercourse with each other; mingling in the 
same elegant pursuits ;—for music, poetry, and painting, 
were our mutual delights; and we were almost separated 
from society among lovely and romantic scenery. Is it 
strange that two young hearts, thus brought together, should 
readily twine round each other ? 

Oh, gods! what a dream—a transient dream of unalloyed 
delight, then passed over my soul! Then it was that the 
world around me was indeed a paradise; for 1 had woman 
—lovely, delicious woman, to share it with me! How often 
have I rambled along the picturesque shores of Sestri, or 
climbed its wild mountains, with the coast gemmed with 
villas, and the blue sea far below me, and the slender Faro 
of Genoa on its romantic promontory in the distance; and 
as I sustained the faltering steps of Bianca, have thought 
there could no unhappiness enter into so beautiful a 
world! How often have we listened together to the night 
ingale, as it poured forth its rich notes among the moonlight 
bowers of the garden, and have wondered that poets could 


ever have fancied any thing melancholy in its song! Why, 


102 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


oh why is this budding season of life and tenderness so 
transient! why is this rosy cloud of love, that sheds such a 
glow over the morning of our days, so prone to brew up into 
the whirlwind and the storm! 

I was the first to awaken from this blissful delirium of 
the affections. I had gained Bianca’s heart, what was I to do 
with it? I had no wealth nor prospect to entitle me to her 
hand; was I to take advantage of her ignorance of the 
world, of her confiding affection, and draw her down to my 
own poverty? Was this requiting the hospitality of the 
count ? was this requiting the love of Bianca ? 

Now first I began to feel that even successful love may 
have its bitterness. A corroding care gathered about my 
heart. I moved about the palace like a guilty being. I felt 
as if I had abused its hospitality, as if I were a thief within 
its walls. I could no longer look with unembarrassed mien 
in the countenance of the count. I accused myself of perfidy 
to him, and I thought he read it in my looks, and began to 
distrust and despise me. His manner had always been os- 
tentatious and condescending; it now appeared cold and 
haughty. Filippo, too, became reserved and distant; or at 
least I suspected him to be so. Heavens! was this the mere 
coinage of my brain? Was I to become suspicious of all 
the world? a poor, surmising wretch; watching looks 
and gestures; and torturing myself with misconstructions ? 
Or, if true, was I to remain beneath a roof where I was 
merely tolerated, and linger there on sufferance? “ This is 
not to be endured!” exclaimed I: “I will tear myself 
from this state of self-abasement—I will break through this 


THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 103 


fascination, and fly—Fly !—Whither ? from the world? for 
where is the world when I leave Bianca behind me?” 

My spirit was naturally proud, and swelled within me at 
the idea of being looked upon with contumely. Many times 
I was on the point of declaring my family and rank, and as- 
serting my equality in the presence of Bianca, when I thought 
her relations assumed an air of superiority. But the feeling 
was transient. I considered myself discarded and condemned 
by my family; and had solemnly vowed never to own rela- 
tionship to them until they themselves should claim it. 

The struggle of my mind preyed upon my happiness and 
my health. It seemed as if the uncertainty of being loved 
would be less intolerable than thus to be assured of it, and 
yet not dare to enjoy the conviction: I was no longer the 
enraptured admirer of Bianca; I no longer hung in 
ecstasy on the tones of her voice, nor drank in with insatiate 
gaze the beauty of her countenance. Her very smiles ceased 
to delight me, for I felt culpable in having won them. 

She could not but be sensible of the change in me, and 
inquired the cause with her usual frankness and simplicity. I 
could not evade the inquiry, for my heart was full to aching. 
I told her all the conflict of my soul; my devouring passion, 
my bitter selftupbraiding. “ Yes,” said I, “1 am unworthy 
of you. I am an offeast from my family—a wanderer—a 
nameless, homeless wanderer—with nothing but poverty for 
my portion; and yet I have dared to love you—have dared 
to aspire to your love.” 

My agitation moved her to tears, but she saw nothing in 
my situation so hopeless as I had depicted it. Brought up 


in a convent, she knew nothing of the world—its wants—its 


104 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


cares: and indeed what woman is a worldly casuist in the 
matters of the heart? Nay, more, she kindled into sweet 
enthusiasm when she spoke of my fortunes and myself. We 
had dwelt together on the works of the famous masters. I 
related to her their histories; the high reputation, the in- 
fluence, the magnificence to which they had attained. The 
companions of princes, the favorites of kings, the pride and 
boast of nations. All this she applied to me. Her love saw 
nothing in all their great productions that I was not able to 
achieve ; and when I beheld the lovely creature glow with 
fervor, and her whole countenance radiant with visions of my 
glory, I was snatched up for the moment into the heaven of 
her own imagination. 

Iam dwelling too long upon this part of my story; yet 
I cannot help lingering over a period of my life on which, 
with all its cares and conflicts, I Jook back with fondness, for 
as yet my soul was unstained by a crime. Ido not know 
what might have been the result of this struggle between 
pride, delicacy, and passion, had I not read in a Neapolitan 
gazette, an account of the sudden death of my brother. It 
was accompanied by an earnest inquiry for intelligence con- 
cerning me, anda prayer, should this meet my eye, that I 
would hasten to Naples to comfort an infirm and afflicted 
father. : 

I was naturally of an affectionate disposition, but my 
brother had never been as a brother to me. I had long con- 
sidered myself as disconnected from him, and his death caused 
me but little emotion. The thoughts of my father, infirm 
and suffering, touched me, however, to the quick ; and when I 


thought of him, that lofty magnificent being, now bowed 


THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 105 


down and desolate, and suing to me for comfort, all my re- 
sentment for past neglect was subdued, and a glow of filial 
affection was awakened within me. 

The predominant feeling, however, that overpowered all 
others, was transport at the sudden change in my whole 
fortunes. A home, a name, rank, wealth, awaited me; and 
love painted a still more rapturous prospect in the distance. 
I hastened to Bianca, and threw myself at her feet. “Oh, 
Bianca!” exclaimed I, “at length I can claim you for my 
own. I am no longer a nameless adventurer, a neglected, 
rejected outcast. Look—read—behold the tidings that re- 
store me to my name and to myself!” 

I will not dwell on the scene that ensued. Bianca re- 
joiced in the reverse of my situation, because she saw it 
lightened my heart of a load of care; for her own part, she 
had loved me for myself, and had never doubted that my 
own merits would command both fame and fortune. 

I now felt all my native pride buoyant within me. Ino 
longer walked with my eyes bent to the dust; hope elevated 
them to the skies—my soul was lit up with fresh fires, and 
beamed from my countenance. 

I wished to impart the change in my circumstances to the 
count; to let him know who and what I was—and to make 
formal proposals for the hand of Bianca; but he was absent 
on a distant estate. I opened my whole soul to Filippo. 
Now first I told him of my passion, of the doubts and fears 
that had distracted me, and of the tidings that had suddenly 
dispelled them. He overwhelmed me with congratulations, 
and with the warmest expressions of sympathy; I embraced 


him in the fulness of my heart ;—I felt compunctious for 


106 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


having suspected him of coldness, and asked his forgiveness 
for ever having doubted his friendship. 

Nothing is so warm and enthusiastic as a sudden expan- 
sion of the heart between young men. Filippo entered into 
our concerns with the most eager interest. He was our 
confidant and counsellor. It was determined that I should 
hasten at once to Naples, to re-establish myself in my father’s 
affections, and my paternal home; and the moment the 
reconciliation was effected, and my father’s consent insured, 
I should return and demand Bianca of the count. Filippo 
engaged to secure his father’s acquiescence ; indeed he under- 
took to watch over our interest, and to be the channel 
through which we might correspond. 

My parting with Bianca was tender—delicious—agoniz- 
ing. it was in a little pavilion of the garden which had been 
one of our favorite resorts. How often and often did I return 
to have one more adieu, to have her look once more on me in 
speechless emotion; to enjoy once more the rapturous sight 
of those tears streaming down her lovely cheeks; to seize 
once more on that delicate hand, the frankly accorded pledge 
of love, and cover it with tears and kisses? Heavens! there 
is a delight even in the parting agony of two lovers, worth a 
thousand tame pleasures of the world. I have her at this 
moment before my eyes, at the window of the pavilion, put- 
ting aside the vines which clustered about the casement, her 
form beaming forth in virgin light, her countenance all tears 
and smiles, sending’a thousand and a thousand adieus after 
me, as hesitating, in a delirium of fondness and agitation, I 
faltered my way down the avenue. 


As the bark bore me out of the harbor of Genoa, how 


THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 107 


eagerly my eye stretched along the coast of Sestri till it dis- 
covered the villa gleaming from among the trees at the foot 
of the mountain. As long as day lasted I gazed and gazed 
upon it, till it lessened and lessened to a mere white speck in 
the distance ; and still my intense and fixed gaze discerned it, 
when all other objects of the coast had blended into indistinct 
confusion, or were lost.in the evening gloom. 

On arriving at Naples, I hastened to my paternal home. 
My heart yearned for the long-withheld blessing of a father’s 
love. As I entered the proud portal of the ancestral palace, 
my emotions were so great, that I could not speak. No one 
knew me, the servants gazed at me with curiosity and sur- 
prise. A few years of intellectual elevation and develop- 
ment had made a prodigious change in the poor fugitive 
stripling from the convent. Still, that no one should know 
me in my rightful home was overpowering. I felt like the 
prodigal son returned. I was a stranger in the house of my 
father. I burst into tears and wept aloud. When I made 
myself known, however, all was changed. I, who had once 
been almost repulsed from its walls, and forced to fly as an 
exile, was welcomed back with acclamation, with servility. 
One of the servants hastened to prepare my father for my 
reception ; my eagerness to receive the paternal embrace was 
so great that [ could not await his return, but hurried after 
him. What a spectacle met my eyes as I entered the 
chamber! My father, whom I had left in the pride of 
vigorous age, whose noble and majestic bearing had so awed 
my young imagination, was bowed down and withered into 
decrepitude. A paralysis had ravaged his stately form, and 


left it a shaking ruin. He sat propped up ‘in his chair, with 


108 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


pale, relaxed visage, and glassy wandering eye. His intel- 
lects had evidently shared in the ravages of his frame. The 
servant was endeavoring to make him comprehend that a 
visitor was at hand. I tottered up to him, and sank at his 
feet. All his past coldness and neglect were forgotten in his 
present sufferings. I remembered only that he was my 
parent, and that I had deserted him. I clasped his knee: 
my voice was almost filled with convulsive sobs. “ Pardon 
—pardon! oh! my father!” was all that I could utter. 
His apprehension seemed slowly to return to him. He gazed 
at me for some moments with a vague, inquiring look; a 
convulsive tremor quivered about his lips; he feebly ex- 
tended a shaking hand; laid it upon my head, and burst into 
an infantine flow of tears. 

From that moment he would scarcely spare me from his 
sight. I appeared the only object that his heart responded to 
in the world; all else was as a blank to him. He had almost 
lost the power of speech, and the reasoning faculty seemed at 
an end. He was mute and passive, excepting that fits of child- 
like weeping would sometimes come over him without any 
immediate cause. IfI left the room at any time, his eye was 
incessantly fixed on the door till my return, and on my en- 
trance there was another gush of tears. 

To talk with him of all my concerns, in this ruined state 
of mind, would have been worse than useless; to have left 
him for ever so short a time would have been cruel, un- 
natural. Here then was a new trial for my affections. I 
wrote to Bianca an account of my return, and of my actual 
_ situation, painting in colors vivid, for they were true, the 


torments I suffered at our being thus separated; for the 


THE YOUNG ITATTAN. 109 


youthful lover every day of absence is an age of love lost. I 
inclosed the letter in one to Filippo, who was the channel of 
our correspondence. I received a reply from him full of 
friendship and sympathy ; from Bianca, full of assurances of 
affection and constancy. Week after week, month after 
month elapsed, without making any change in my circum- 
stances. The vital flame which had seemed nearly extinct 
when first I met my father, kept fluttering on without any 
apparent diminution. I watched him constantly, faithfully, I 
had almost said patiently. I knew that his death alone would 
set me free—yet I never at any moment wished it. I felt 
too glad to be able to make any atonement for past 
disobedience ; and denied, as I had been, all endearments of 
relationship in my early days, my heart yearned towards 
a father, who in his age and helplessness had thrown himself 
entirely on me for comfort. 

My passion for Bianca gained daily more force from ab- 
sence: by constant meditation it wore itself a deeper and 
deeper channel. I made no new friends nor acquaintances ; 
sought none of the pleasures of Naples, which my rank and 
fortune threw open to me. Mine was a heart that confined 
itself to few objects, but dwelt upon them with the intenser 
passion. To sit by my father, administer to his wants, and to 
meditate on Bianca in the silence of his chamber, was my con- 
stant habit. Sometimes I amused myself with my pencil, in 
portraying the image ever present to my imagination. I trans 
ferred to canvas every look and smile of hers that dwelt in 
my heart. I showed them to my father, in hopes of awaken- 
ing an interest in his bosom for the mere shadow of my love ; 


but he was too far sunk in intellect to take any notice of 
5* 


110 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


them. When I received a letter from Bianca, it was a new 
source of solitary luxury. Jer letters, it is true, were less 
and less frequent, but they were always full of assurances of 
unabated affection. They breathed not the frank and inno- 
cent warmth with which she expressed herself in conversation, 
but I accounted for it from the embarrassment which inex- 
perienced minds have often to express themselves upon paper. 
Filippo assured me of her unaltered constancy. They both 
lamented, in the strongest terms, our continued separation, 
though they did justice to the filial piety that kept me by my 
father’s side. 

Nearly two years elapsed in this protracted exile. To 
me they were so many ages. Ardent and impetuous by 
nature, I scarcely know how I should have supported so long 
an absence, had I not felt assured that the faith of Bianca was 
equal to my own. At length my father died. Life went 
from him almost imperceptibly. I hung over him in mute 
affliction, and watched the expiring spasms of nature. His 
last faltering accents whispered repeatedly a blessing on me. 
Alas! how has it been fulfilled ! 

When I had paid due honors to his remains, and Jaid them 
in the tomb of our ancestors, I arranged briefly my affairs, 
put them in a posture to be easily at my command from a 
distance, and embarked once more with a bounding heart for 
Genoa. 

Our voyage was propitious, and oh! what was my rap- 
ture, when first, in the dawn of morning, I saw the shadowy 
summits of the Apennines rising almost like clouds above 
the horizon! The sweet breath of summer just moved us 


over the long wavering billows that were rolling us on 


THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 111 


towards Genoa. By degrees the coast of Sestri rose like a 
creation of enchantment from the silver bosom of the deep. 
I beheld the line of villages and palaces studding its borders, 
My eye reverted to a well-known point, and at length, from 
the confusion of distant objects, it singled out the villa which 
contained Bianca, It was a mere speck in the landscape, but 
glimmering from afar, the polar star of my heart. 

Again I gazed at it for a livelong summer’s day, but oh! 
how different the emotions between departure and return. It 
now kept growing and growing, instead of lessening and 
lessening on my sight. My heart seemed to dilate with it. I 
looked at it through a telescope. I gradually defined one 
feature after another. The balconies of the central saloon 
where first I met Bianca beneath its roof; the terrace where 
we so often had passed the delightful summer evenings ; the 
awning which shaded her chamber window ; I almost fancied 
I saw her form beneath it. Could she but know her lover 
was in the bark whose white sail now gleamed on the sunny 
bosom of the sea! My fond impatience increased as we 
neared the coast; the ship seemed to lag lazily over the 
billows ; I could almost have sprang into the sea, and swam 
to the desired shore. 

The shadows of evening gradually shrouded the scene ; 
but the moon arose in all her fulness and beauty, and shed 
the tender light so dear to lovers, over the romantic coast of 
Sestri. My soul was bathed in unutterable tenderness. I 
anticipated the heavenly evenings I should pass in once more 
wandering with Bianca by the light of that blessed moon. 

It was late at night before we entered the harbor. As 


early next morning as I could get released from the for- 


112 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


malities of landing, I threw myself on horseback, and hastened 
to the villa. As I galloped round the rocky promontory on 
which stands the Faro, and saw the coast of Sestri, opening 
upon me, a thousand anxieties and doubts suddenly sprang 
up in my bosom. There is something fearful in returning to 
those we love, while yet uncertain what ills or changes ab- 
sence may have effected. The turbulence of my agitation 
shook my very frame. I spurred my horse to redoubled 
speed; he was covered with foam when we both arrived 
panting at the gateway that opened to the grounds around the 
villa. I left my horse at a cottage, and walked through the 
grounds, that I might regain tranquillity for the approaching 
interview. I chid myself for having suffered mere doubts 
and surmises thus suddenly to overcome me; but I was always 
prone to be carried away by gusts of the feelings. 

On entering the garden, every thing bore the same look 
as when I had left it; and this unchanged aspect of things 
reassured me. ‘There were the alleys in which I had so often 
walked with Bianca, as we listened to the song of the night- 
ingale ; the same shades under which we had so often sat 
during the noontide heat. There were the same flowers of 
which she was fond; and which appeared still to be under 
the ministry of her hand. Every thing looked and breathed 
of Bianca; hope and joy flushed in my bosom at every step. 
I passed a little arbor, in which we had often sat and read 
together—a book and glove lay on the bench—It was Bianca’s 
glove; it was a volume of the Metastasio I had given her. 
The glove lay in my favorite passage. I clasped them to my 
heart with rapture. “ All is safe!” exclaimed 1; “she loves 


me, she is still my own!” 


_ THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 113 


I bounded lightly along the avenue, down which I had 
faltered so slowly at my departure. 1 beheld her favorite 
pavilion, which had witnessed our parting scene. The 
window was open, with the same vine clambering about it, 
precisely as when she waved and wept me an adieu. O how 
transporting was the contrast in my situation! As I passed 
near the pavilion, I heard the tones of a female voice: they 
thrilled through me with an appeal to my heart not to be 
mistaken. Before I could think, I felt they were Bianca’s. 
For an instant I paused, overpowered with agitation. I 
feared to break so suddenly upon her. I softly ascended 
the steps of the pavilion. The door was open. I saw Bianca 
seated at a table; her back was towards me, she was war- 
bling a soft melancholy air, and was occupied in drawing. A 
glance sufficed to show me that she was copying one of my 
own paintings. I gazed on her for a moment in a delicious 
tumult of emotions. She paused in her singing: a heavy 
sigh, almost a sob followed. I could no longer contain my- 
self. “ Bianca!” exclaimed J, in a_half-smothered voice. 
She started at the sound, brushed back the ringlets that hung 
clustering about her face, darted a glance at me, uttered a 
piercing shriek, and would have fallen to the earth, had I not 
caught her in my arms. 

‘‘ Bianca! my own Bianca!” exclaimed I, folding her to 
my bosom, my voice stifled in sobs of convulsive joy. She 
lay in my arms without sense or motion. Alarmed at the 
effects of my precipitation, I scarce knew what to do. I tried 
by a thousand endearing words to call her back to conscious- 
ness. She slowly recovered, and half opened her eyes, 


“ Where am I?” murmured she faintly. ‘ Here!” exclaimed 


114 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


I, pressing her to my bosom, “ here—close to the heart that 
adores you—in the arms of your faithful Ottavio!” “Oh 
no! no! no!” shrieked she, starting into sudden life and 
terror—“ away ! away! leave me! leave me!” 

She tore herself from my arms; rushed to a corner of the 
saloon, and covered her face with her hands, as if the very 
sight of me were baleful. I was thunderstruck. I could 
not believe my senses. I followed her, trembling; con- 
founded. I endeavored to take her hand; but she shrunk 
from my very touch with horror. 

“Good heavens, Bianca!” exclaimed IJ, “what is the 
meaning of this? Is this my reception after so long an 
absence? Is this the love you professed for me?” 

At the mention of love, a shuddering ran through her. She 
turned to me a face wild with anguish: “ No more of that— 
no more of that!” gasped she: “talk not to me of love—I 


—I 


am married !” 


I reeled as if I had received a mortal blow—a sickness 
struck to my very heart. I caught at a window-frame for 
support. For a moment or two every thing was chaos 
around me. When I recovered, I beheld Bianca lying on a 
sofa, her face buried in the pillow, and sobbing convulsively. 
Indignation for her fickleness for a moment overpowered 
every other feeling. 

“ Faithless—perjured !” cried I, striding across the room, 
But another glance at that beautiful being in distress checked 
all my wrath. Anger could not dwell together with her idea 
in my soul, 


“Oh! Bianca,” exclaimed I, in anguish “could I have 


THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 115 


dreamt of this? Could I have suspected you would have 
been false to me?” 

She raised her face all streaming with tears, all disordered 
with emotion, and gave me one appealing look. “ False to 
you ?—They told me you were dead !” 

“What,” said I, “in spite of our constant corre- 
spondence ?” 

She gazed wildly at me: “Correspondence? what corre- 
spondence !” 

“Have you not repeatedly received and replied to my 
letters?” 

She clasped her hands with solemnity and fervor. “As 
I hope for merey—never ! ” 

A horrible surmise shot through my brain. ‘ Who told 
you I was dead ?” 

“It was reported that the ship in which you embarked 
for Naples perished at sea.” 

* But who told you the report ?” 

She paused for an instant, and trembled :—“ Filippo!” 

“ May the God of heaven curse him!” cried I, extending 
my clinched fists aloft. 

“ Oh do not curse him, do not curse him!” exclaimed she, 
“he is—he is—my husband !” 

This was all that was wanting to unfold the perfidy 
that had been practised upon me. My blood boiled like 
liquid fire in my veins. I gasped with rage too great for 
utterance—I remained for a time bewildered by the whirl of 
horrible thoughts that rushed through my mind. The poor 
victim of deception before me thought it was with her I was: 


incensed, She faintly murmured forth her exculpation. I 


116 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


will not dwell upon it. I saw in it more than she meant to 
reveal. I saw with a glance how both of us had been 
betrayed. 

“Tis well,” muttered I to myself in smothered accents of 
concentrated fury. “ He shall render an account of all this.” 

Bianca overheard me. New terror flashed in her coun- 
tenance. “For mercy’s sake, do not meet him !—say 
nothing of what has passed—for my sake say nothing to him 
—TI only shall be the sufferer!” 

A new suspicion darted across my mind.—* What!” 
exclaimed I, “do you then fear him? is he unkind to 
you? Tell me,” reiterated I, grasping her hand, and looking 
her eagerly in the face, “tell me—dares he to use you 
harshly ?” 

“No! no! no!” cried she, faltering and embarrassed— 
but the glance at her face had told me volumes. I saw in 
her pallid and wasted features, in the prompt terror and 
subdued agony of her eye, a whole history of a mind broken 
down by tyranny. Great God! and was this beauteous 
flower snatched from me to be thus trampled upon? The 
idea roused me to madness, I clinched my teeth and hands ; 
I foamed at the mouth; every passion seemed to have re- 
solved itself into the fury that like a lava boiled within my 
heart. Bianca shrunk from me in speechless affright. As I 
strode by the window, my eye darted down the alley. Fatal 
moment! I beheld Filippo at a distance! my brain was in 
delirium—lI sprang from the pavilion, and was before him 
with the quickness of lightning. He saw me as I came rush- 
‘ing upon him—he turned pale, looked wildly to right and 
left, as if he would have fled, and trembling, drew his sword. 


THE YOUNG ITALIAN. Tit 


“ Wretch!” cried I, “ well may you draw your weapon !” 

I spoke not another word—I snatched forth a stiletto, put 
by the sword which trembled in his hand, and buried my 
poniard in his bosom. He fell with the blow, but my rage 
was unsated. I sprang upon him with the blood-thirsting 
feeling of a tiger; redoubled my blows; mangled him in 
my frenzy, grasped him by the throat, until, with reiterated 
wounds and strangling convulsions, he expired in my grasp. 
I remained glaring on the countenance, horrible in death, that 
seemed to stare back with its protruded eyes upon me. 
Piercing shrieks roused me from my delirium. I looked 
round and beheld Bianca flying distractedly towards us. 
My brain whirled—I waited not to meet her; but fled from 
the scene of horror. I fled forth from the garden like another 
Cain,—a hell within my bosom, and a curse upon my head. 
I fled without knowing whither, almost without knowing why. 
My only idea was to get farther and farther from the horrors 
I had left behind; as if I could throw space between myself 
and my conscience. I fled to the Apennines, and wandered 
for days and days among their savage heights. How I ex- 
isted, I cannot tell—what rocks and precipices I braved, and 
how I braved them, I know not. I kept on and on, trying 
to out-travel the curse that clung to me. Alas! the 
shrieks of Bianca rung forever in my ears. The horrible 
countenance of my victim was forever before my eyes. The 
blood of Filippo cried to me from the ground. Rocks, trees, 
and torrents, all resounded with my crime. Then it was I 
felt how much more insupportable is the anguish of remorse 
than every other mental pang. Oh! could I but have cast off 
this crime that festered in my heart—could I but have 


118 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


regained the innocence that reigned in my breast as I entered 
the garden at Sestri—could I have but restored my victim 
to life, I felt as if I could look on with transport, even 
though Bianca were in his arms. 

By degrees this frenzied fever of remorse settled into a 
permanent malady of the mind—into one of the most horrible 
‘that ever poor wretch was cursed with. Wherever I went, 
the countenance of him I had slain appeared to follow me. 
Whenever I turned my head, I beheld it behind me, hideous 
with the contortions of the dying moment. I have tried in 
every way to escape from this horrible phantom, but in vain. 
I know not whether it be an illusion of the mind, the conse- 
quence of my dismal education at the convent, or whether.a 
phantom really sent by Heaven to punish me, but there it 
ever is—at all times—in all places. Nor has time nor habit 
had any effect in familiarizing me with its terrors. I have 
travelled from place to place—plunged into amusements— 
tried dissipation and distraction of every kind—all—all in 
vain. I once had recourse to my pencil, as a desperate ex- 
periment. I painted an exact resemblance of this phantom 
face. I placed it before me, in hopes that by constantly con- 
templating the copy, I might diminish the effect of the origi- 
nal. But I only doubled instead of diminishing the misery. 
Such is the curse that has clung to my footsteps—that has 
made my life a burden, but the thought of death terrible. 
God knows what I have suffered—what days and days, and 
nights and nights of sleepless torment—what a never-dying 
worm has preyed upon my heart—what an unquenchable fire 
has burned within my brain! He knows the wrongs that 


wrought upon my poor weak nature; that converted the ten- 


THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 119 


derest of affections into the deadliest of fury. He knows 
best whether a frail erring creature has expiated by long- 
enduring torture and measureless remorse the crime of a 
moment of madness. Often, often have I prostrated myself 
in the dust, and implored that he would give me a sign of his 


forgiveness, and let me die 


Thus far had I written some time since. I had meant to 
leave this record of misery and crime with you, to be réad 
when I should be no more. 

My prayer to Heaven has at length been heard. You 
were witness to my emotions last evening at the church, 
when the vaulted temple resounded with the words of atone- 
ment and redemption. I heard a voice speaking to me from 
the midst of the music; I heard it rising above the pealing of 
the organ and the voices of the choir—it spoke to me in tones 
of celestial melody—it promised mercy and forgiveness, but 
demanded from me full expiation. I go to make it. To- 
morrow I shall be on my way to Genoa, to surrender myself 
to justice. You who have pitied my sufferings, who have 
poured the balm of sympathy into my wounds, do not shrink 
from my memory with abhorrence now that you know my 
story. Recollect, that when you read of my crime J shall 


have atoned for it with my blood! 


When the Baronet had finished, there was a universal de- 
sire expressed to see the painting of this frightful visage. 
After much entreaty the Baronet consented, on condition that 


120 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


they should only visit it one by one. He called his house- 
keeper, and gave her charge to conduct the gentlemen, singly, 
to the chamber. They all returned varying in their stories. 
Some affected in one way, some in another; some more, some 
less; but all agreeing that there was a certain something 
about the painting that had a very odd effect upon the 
feelings. 

I stood in a deep bow-window with the Baronet, and could 
not help expressing my wonder. “ After all,” said I, “ there 
are certain mysteries in our nature, certain inscrutable im- 
pulses and influences, which warrant one in being superstitious. 
Who can account for so many persons of different characters 
being thus strangely affected by a mere painting ?” 

“ And especially when not one of them has seen it ?” said 
the Baronet, with a smile. 

“ How!” exclaimed I, “not seen it ?” 

“ Not one of them!” replied he, laying his finger on his 
lips, in sign of secrecy. “I saw that some of them were in a 
bantering vein, and did not choose that the memento of the 
poor Italian should be made a jest of. SoI gave the house- 
keeper a hint to show them all to a different chamber !” 


Thus end the stories of the Nervous Gentleman. 


PART SECOND. 


BUCKTHORNE AND HIS FRIENDS. 


This world is the best that we live in, 
To lend, or to spend, or to give in; 
But to beg, or to borrow, or get a man’s own, 
*Tis the very worst world, sir, that ever was known. 
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LITERARY LIFE. 


MONG other subjects of a traveller’s curiosity, I had at 
one time a great craving after anecdotes of literary life ; 
and being at London, one of the most noted places for the 
production of books, I was excessively anxious to know some- 
thing of the animals which produced them. Chance fortu- 
nately threw me in the way of a literary man by the name of 
Buckthorne, an eccentric personage, who had lived much in 
the metropolis, and could give me the natural history of 
every odd animal to be met with in that wilderness of men. 
He readily imparted to me some useful hints upon the sub- 
ject of my inquiry. 

“ The literary world,” said he, “is made up of little con- 
federacies, each looking upon its own members as the lights 
of the universe ; and considering all others as mere transient 
meteors, doomed soon to fall and be forgotten, while its own 
luminaries are to shine steadily on to immortality.” 

“And pray,” said I, “how is a man to get a peep into 
those confederacies you speak of? I presume an intercourse 
with authors is a kind of intellectual exchange, where one 
must bring his commodities to barter, and always give a guid 
pro quo.” 

“ Pooh, pooh! how you mistake,” said Buckthorne, smil- 


ing; “ you must never think to become popular among wits 


124 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


by shining. They go into society to shine themselves, not to 
admire the brilliancy of others. I once thought as you do, 
and never went into literary society without studying my 
part beforehand; the consequence was, that I soon got the 
name of an intolerable proser, and should in a little while 
have been completely excommunicated, had I not changed my 
plan of operations. No, sir, no character succeeds so well 
among wits as that of a good listener; or if ever you are 
eloquent, let it be when téte-a-téte with an author, and then 
in praise of his own works, or, what is nearly as acceptable, 
in disparagement of the works of his contemporaries. If ever 
he speaks favorably of the productions of a particular friend, 
dissent boldly from him ; pronounce his friend to be a block- 
head ; never fear his being vexed; much as people speak of 
the irritability of authors, I never found one to take offence at 
such contradictions. No, no, sir, authors are particularly 
candid in admitting the faults of their friends. 

“ Indeed, I would advise you to be exceedingly sparing of 
remarks on all modern works, except to make sarcastic ob- 
servations on the most distinguished writers of the day.” 

“ Faith,” said I, “Tl praise none that have not been dead 
for at least half a century.” 

“ Even then,” observed Mr. Buckthorne, “I would advise 
you to be rather cautious ; for you must know that many old 
writers have been enlisted under the banners of different 
sects, and their merits have become as completely topics of 
party discussion as the merits of living statesmen and politi- 
cians. Nay, there have been whole periods of literature ab- 
solutely taboo’d, to use a South Sea phrase. It is, for 


example, as much as a man’s critical reputation is worth in 


LITERARY LIFE. 125 


some circles, to say a word in praise of any of the writers of 
the reign of Charles the Second, or even of Queen Anne, they 
being all declared Frenchmen in disguise.” 

“ And pray,” said I, “ when am I then to know that I am 
on safe grounds, being totally unacquainted with the literary 
land-marks, and the boundary line of fashionable taste.” 

“Oh!” replied he, “there is fortunately one tract of 
literature which forms a kind of neutral ground, on which all 
the literary meet amicably, and run riot in the excess of their 
good humor; and this is in the reigns of Elizabeth and 
James. Here you may praise away at random. Here it is 
‘cut and cone again;’ and the more obscure the author, 
and the more quaint and crabbed his style, the more your ad- 
miration will smack of the real relish of the connoisseur ; 
whose taste, like that of an epicure, is always for game that 
has an antiquated flavor. i 

“But,” continued he, “as you seem anxious to know 
something of literary society, I will take an opportunity to 
introduce you to some coterie, where the talents of the day 
are assembled. I cannot promise you, however, that they 
will all be of the first order. Somehow or other, our great 
geniuses are not gregarious ; they do not go in flocks, but fly 
singly in general society. They prefer mingling like com- 
‘mon men with the multitude, and are apt to carry nothing of 
the author about them but the reputation. It is only the in- | 
ferior orders that herd together, acquire strength and impor- 
tance by their confederacies, and bear all the distinctive 


characteristics of their species.” 


A LITERARY DINNER. 


FEW days after this conversation with Mr. Buckthorne, 

he called upon me, and took me with him to a regular 
literary dinner. It was given by a great bookseller, or rather 
a company of booksellers, whose firm surpassed in length 
that of Shadrach, Meshech, and Abednego. 

I was surprised to find between twenty and thirty guests 
assembled, most of whom I had never seen before. Mr. 
Buckthorne explained this to me, by informing me that this 
was a business dinner, or kind of field-day, which the house 
gave about twice a year to its authors. It is true they did 
occasionally give snug dinners to three or four literary men 
at a time; but then these were generally select authors 
favorites of the public, such as had arrived at their sixth or 
seventh editions. ‘There are,” said he, “ certain geograph- 
ical boundaries in the land of literature, and you may judge 
tolerably well of an author’s popularity by the wine his 
bookseller gives him. An author crosses the port line about 
the third edition, and gets into claret; and when he has 
reached the sixth or seventh, he may revel in champagne and 
burgundy.” 

“ And pray,” said I, “how far may these gentlemen have 


A LITERARY DINNER. 127 


reached that I see around me; are any of these claret 
drinkers ?” 

“ Not exactly, not exactly. You find at these great 
dinners the common steady run of authors, one or two 
edition men; or if any others are invited, they are aware 
that it is a kind of republican meeting—You understand me 
—a meeting of the republic of letters; and that they must 
expect nothing but plain substantial fare.” 

These hints enabled me to comprehend more fully the ar- 
rangement of the table. The two ends were occupied by two 
partners of the house; and the host seemed to have adopted 
Addison’s idea as to the literary precedence of his guests. A 
popular poet had the post of honor ; opposite to whom was a 
hot-pressed traveller in quarto with plates. A grave-looking 
antiquarian, who had produced several solid works, that were 
much quoted and little read, was treated with great respect, 
and seated next to a neat dressy gentleman in black, who had 
written a thin, genteel, hot-pressed octavo on political econ- 
omy, that was getting into fashion. Several three-volumed 
duodecimo men, of fair currency, were placed about the 
centre of the table; while the lower end was taken up with 
small poets, translators, and authors who had not as yet risen 
into much notoriety. 

The conversation during dinner was by fits and starts ; 
breaking out here and there in various parts of the table in 
small flashes, and ending in smoke. The poet, who had the 
confidence of a man on good terms with the world, and inde- 
pendent of his bookseller, was very gay and brilliant, and 
said many clever things which set the partner next him in a 
roar, and delighted all the company. The other partner, 


128 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


however, maintained his sedateness, and kept carving on, with 

the air of a thorough man of business, intent upon the oceupa- | 
tion of the moment. His gravity was explained to me by 

my friend Buckthorne. He informed me that the concerns of 
the house were admirably distributed among the partners. 

“Thus, for instance,” said he, “the grave gentleman is the 

carving partner, who attends to the joints; and the other is 

the laughing partner, who attends to the jokes.” 

The general conversation was chiefly carried on at the 
upper end of the table, as the authors there seemd to possess 
the greatest courage of the tongue. As to the crew at the 
lower end, if they did not make much figure in talking, they 
did in eating. Never was there a more determined, invet- 
erate, thoroughly sustained attack on the trencher than by 
this phalanx of masticators. When the cloth was removed, 
and the wine began to circulate, they grew very merry and 
jocose among themselves. Their jokes, however, if by chance 
any of them reached the upper end of the table, seldom pro- 
duced much effect. Even the laughing partner did not think 
it necessary to honor them with a smile; which my neighbor 
Buckthorne accounted for, by informing me that there was a 
certain degree of popularity to be obtained before a book- 
seller could afford to laugh at an author’s jokes. 

Among this crew of questionable gentlemen thus seated 
below the salt, my eye singled out one in particular. He 
was rather shabbily dressed ; though he had evidently made 
the most of a rusty black coat, and wore his shirt-frill plaited 
and puffed out voluminously at the bosom. His face was 
dusky, but florid, perhaps a little too florid, particularly 
about the nose; though the rosy hue gave the greater lustre 


A LITERARY DINNER. 129 


to a twinkling black eye. He had a little the look of a boon 
companion, with that dash of the poor devil in it which gives 
an inexpressibly mellow tone to a man’s humor. I had 
seldom seen a face of richer promise ; but never was promise 
so ill kept. He said nothing, ate and drank with the keen 
appetite of a garreteer, and scarcely stopped to laugh, even at 
the good jokes from the upper end of the table. I inquired 
who he was. Buckthorne looked at him attentively: “Gad,” 
said he, “I have seen that face before, but where I cannot 
recollect. He cannot be an author of any note. I suppose 
some writer of sermons, or grinder of foreign travels.” 

After dinner we retired to another room to take tea and 
coffee, where we were reinforced by a cloud of inferior guests, 
—authors of small volumes in boards, and pamphlets stitched 
in blue paper. These had not as yet arrived to the impor- 
tance of a dinner invitation, but were invited occasionally to 
pass the evening in a friendly way. They were very respect- 
ful to the partners, and, indeed, seemed to stand a little in 
awe of them; but they paid devoted court to the lady of the 
house, and were extravagantly fond of the children. Some 
few, who did not feel confidence enough to make such ad- 
vances, stood shyly off in corners, talking to one another ; or 
turned over the portfolios of prints which they had not seen 
above five thousand times, or moused over the music on the 
forte-piano. 

The poet and the thin octavo gentleman were the persons 
most current and at their ease in the drawing-room ; being 
men evidently of circulation in the West End. They got on 
each side of the lady of the house, and paid her a thousand 
compliments and civilities, at some of which I thought she 


130 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


would have expired with delight. Every thing they said and 
did had the odor of fashionable life. I looked round in vain 
for the poor devil author in the rusty black coat; he had 
disappeared immediately after leaving the table, having a 
dread, no doubt, of the glaring light of a drawing-room. 
Finding nothing further to interest my attention, I took my 
departure soon after coffee had been served, leaving the poet, 
and the thin, genteel, hot-pressed octavo gentleman, masters 
of the field. 


THE CLUB OF QUEER FELLOWS. 


THINK it was the very next evening that, in coming out 

of Covent Garden Theatre with my eccentric friend Buck- 
thorne, he proposed to give me another peep at life and 
character. Finding me willing for any research of the kind, 
he took me through a variety of the narrow courts and lanes 
about Covent Garden, until we stopped before a tavern, from 
which we heard the bursts of merriment of a jovial party. 
There would be a loud peal of laughter, then an interval, then 
another peal, as if a prime wag were telling a story. After a 
little while there was a song, and at the close of each stanza a 
hearty roar, and a vehement thumping on the table. 


? 


“This is the place,’ whispered Buckthorne ; “it is the 
club of queer fellows, a great resort of the small wits, third- 
rate actors, and newspaper critics of the theatres. Any one 
can go in on paying a sixpence at the bar for the use of the 
club.” 

We entered, therefore, without ceremony, and took our 
seats at a lone table, in a dusky corner of the room. ‘The 
club was assembled round a table, on which stood beverages 
of various kinds, according to the tastes of the individuals. 
The members were a set of queer fellows indeed; but what 


was my surprise on recognizing, in the prime wit of the 


132 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


meeting, the poor devil author whom I had remarked at the 
booksellers’ dinner for his promising face and his complete 
taciturnity. Matters, however, were entirely changed with 
him. ‘There he was a mere cipher; here he was lord of the 
ascendant, the choice spirit, the dominant genius. He sat at 
the head of the table with his hat on, and an eye beaming 
even more luminously than his nose. He had a quip and a 
fillip for every one, and a good thing on every occasion. 
Nothing could be said or done without eliciting a spark from 
him: and I solemnly declare I have heard much worse wit 
even from noblemen. Tis jokes, it must be confessed, were 
rather wet, but they suited the circle over which he presided. 
The company were in that maudlin mood, when a little wit 
goes a great way. Every time he opened his lips there was 
sure to be a roar; and even sometimes before he had time to 
speak. 

We were fortunate enough to enter in time for a glee 
composed by him expressly for the club, and which he sung 
with two boon companions, who would have been worthy 
subjects for Hogarth’s pencil. As they were each provided 
with a written copy, | was enabled to procure the reading 
of it. 

Merrily, merrily push round the glass, 
And merrily troll the glee, 


For he who won’t drink till he wink, is an ass, 
So, neighbor, I drink to thee. - 


Merrily, merrily fuddle thy nose, 
Until it right rosy shall be; 

For a jolly red nose, I speak under the rose, 
Is a sign of good company. 


THE CLUB OF QUEER FELLOWS. 138 


We waited until the party broke up, and no one but the 
wit remained. He sat at the table with his legs stretched 
under it, and wide apart; his hands in his breeches pockets ; 
his head drooped upon his breast ; and gazing with lacklustre 
countenance on an empty tankard. His gayety was gone, his 
fire completely quenched. 

My companion approached, and startled him from his fit 
of brown study, introducing himself on the strength of their 
having dined together at the booksellers’. 

“ By the way,” said he, “ it seems to me I have seen you 
before; your face is surely that of an old acquaintance, 
though for the life of me I cannot tell where I have known 
you.” 

“ Very likely,” replied he, with a smile; “many of my 
old friends have forgotten me. Though, to tell the truth, my 
memory in this instance is as bad as your own. If, however, 
it will assist your recollection in any way, my name is 
Thomas Dribble, at your service.” 

“ What! Tom Dribble, who was at old Birchell’s school 
in Warwickshire ? ” 


“ The same,” 


said the other, coolly. 

“Why, then, we are old schoolmates, though it’s no 
wonder you don’t recollect me. Iwas your junior by several 
years ; don’t you recollect little Jack Buckthorne ?” 

Here there ensued a scene of school-fellow recognition, 
and a world of talk about old school times and school pranks. 
Mr. Dribble ended by observing, with a heavy sigh, “ that 
times were sadly changed since those days.” 

“Faith, Mr. Dribble,” said I, “ you seem quite a different 


man here from what you were at dinner. I had no idea that 
6* 


134 - . TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


you had so much stuff in you. There you were all silence, 
but here you absolutely keep the table in a roar.” 

“ Ah! my dear sir,” replied he, with a shake of the head, 
and a shrug of the shoulder, “I am a mere glow-worm. | 
never shine by daylight. Besides, it’s a hard thing for a 
poor devil of an author to shine at the table of a rich book- 
seller. Who do you think would laugh at any thing I could 
say, when I had some of the current wits of the day about 
me? But here, though a poor devil, 1 am among still poorer 
devils than myself; men who look up to me as a man of 
letters, and a belle-esprit, and all my jokes pass as sterling 
gold from the mint.” 

“You surely do yourself injustice, sir,” said I; “I have 
certainly heard more good things from you this evening, than 
from any of those beaux-esprits by whom you appear to have 
been so daunted.” 

“ Ah, sir! but they have luck on their side: they are in 
the fashion—there’s nothing like being in fashion. A man 
that has once got his character up for a wit is always sure of 
a laugh, say what he may. He may utter as much nonsense 
as he pleases, and all will pass current. No one stops to 
question the coin of a rich man; but a poor devil cannot pass 
off either a joke or a guinea, without its being examined on 
both sides, Wit and coin are always doubted with a thread. 
bare coat. 

“or my part,’ continued he, giving his hat a twitch a 
little more on one side,—“ for my part, I hate your fine 
dinners; there’s nothing, sir, like the freedom of a chop-house. 
Pd rather, any time, have my steak and tankard among my 
own set, than drink claret and eat venison with your cursed 


THE CLUB OF QUEER FELLOWS. 135 


civil, elegant company, who never laugh at a good joke from 
a poor devil for fear of its being vulgar. A good joke grows 
in a wet soil; it flourishes in low places, but withers on your 
d—d high, dry grounds. I once kept high company, sir, 
until I nearly ruined myself; I grew so dull, and vapid, and 
genteel. Nothing saved me but being arrested by my land- 
lady, and thrown into prison; where a course of catch-clubs, 
eightpenny ale, and poor devil company, manured my mind, 
and brought it back to itself again.” 

As it was now growing late, we parted for the evening, 
though I felt anxious to know more of this practical philoso- 
pher. I was glad, therefore, when Buckthorne proposed to 
have another meeting, to talk over old school times, and 
inquired his schoolmate’s address. The latter seemed at first 
a little shy of naming his lodgings; but suddenly, assuming 


” exclaimed he 


an air of hardihood—* Green-arbor court, sir, 
—“ Number—in Green-arbor court. You must know the 
place. Classic ground, sir, classic ground! It was there 
Goldsmith wrote his Vicar of Wakefield—I always like to 
live in literary haunts.” 

I was amused with this whimsical apology for shabby 
quarters. On our way homeward, Buckthorne assured me 
that this Dribble had been the prime wit and great wag of 
the school in their boyish days, and one of those unlucky 
urchins denominated bright geniuses. As he perceived me 
curious respecting his old schoolmate, he promised to take 
me with him in his proposed visit to Green-arbor court. 

A few mornings afterward he called upon me, and we set 
forth on our expedition. He led me through a variety of sin- 


gular alleys, and courts, and blind passages ; for he appeared 


136 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


to be perfectly versed in all the intricate geography of the 
metropolis. At length we came out upon F[leet-market, and 
traversing it, turned up a narrow street to the bottom of a 
long steep flight of stone steps, called Break-neck-stairs. 
These, he told me, led up to Green-arbor court, and that 
down them poor Goldsmith might many a time have risked 
his neck. When we entered the court, I could not but smile 
to think in what out-of-the-way corners genius produces her 
bantlings! And the muses, those capricious dames, who, 
forsooth, so often refuse to visit palaces, and deny a single 
smile to votaries in splendid studies, and- gilded drawing- 
rooms,—what holes and burrows will they frequent to lavish 
their favors on some ragged disciple ! | 

This Green-arbor court I found to be a small square, 
surrounded by tall and miserable houses, the very intestines 
of which seemed turned inside out, to judge from the old 
garments and frippery fluttering from every window. It 
appeared to be a region of washerwomen, and lines were 
stretched about the little square, on which clothes were 
dangling to dry. 

Just as we entered the square, a scuffle took place 
between two viragos about a disputed right to a wash-tub, 
and immediately the whole community was in a hubbub. 
Heads in mob-caps popped out of every window, and such a 
clamor of tongues ensued, that I was fain to stop my ears. 
Every amazon took part with one or other of the disputants, 
and brandished her arms, dripping with soap-suds, and fired 
away from her window as from the embrazure of a fortress ; 
while the swarms of children nestled and cradled in every 


THE CLUB OF QUEER FELLOWS. 137 


procreant chamber of this hive, waking with the noise, set up 
their shrill pipes to swell the general concert. 

Poor Goldsmith! what a time he must have had of it, 
with his quiet disposition and nervous habits, penned up in 
this den of noise and vulgarity! How strange, that while 
every sight and sound was sufficient to embitter the heart, 
and fill it with misanthropy, his pen should be dropping the 
honey of Hybla! Yet it is more than probable that he drew 
many of his inimitable pictures of low life from the scenes 
which surrounded him in this abode. The circumstance of 
Mrs. Tibbs being obliged to wash her husband’s two shirts in 
a neighbor’s house, who refused to lend her wash-tub, may ° 
have been no sport of fancy, but a fact passing under his own 
eye. His landlady may have sat for the picture, and Beau 
Tibbs’ scanty wardrobe have been a fac-simile of his own. 

It was with some difficulty that we found our way to 
Dribble’s lodgings. They were up two pair of stairs, in a 
room that looked upon the court, and when we entered, he 
was seated on the edge of his bed, writing at a broken table. 
He received us, however, with a free, open, poor-devil air, 
that was irresistible. It is true he did at first appear slightly 
confused; buttoned up his waistcoat a little higher, and 
tucked in a stray frill of linen. But he recollected himself in 
an instant; gave a half swagger, half leer, as he stepped forth 
to receive us; drew a three-legged stool for Mr. Buckthorne ; 
pointed me to a lumbering old damask chair, that looked like 
a dethroned monarch in exile; and bade us welcome to his 
garret. 


We soon got engaged in conversation. -Buckthorne and 


138 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


he had much to say about early school scenes; and as 
nothing opens a man’s heart more than recollections of the 
kind, we soon drew from him a brief outline of his literary 


career, 


THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 


BEGAN life unluckily by being the wag and _ bright 

fellow at school; and I had the further misfortune of be- 
coming the great genius of my native village. My father 
was a country attorney, and intended I should succeed him in 
business ; but I had too much genius to study, and he was 
too fond of my genius to force it into the traces; so I fell 
into bad company, and took to bad habits. Do not mistake 
me. I mean that I fell into the company of village literati, 
and village blues, and took to writing village poetry. 

It was quite the fashion in the village to be literary. 
There was a little knot of choice spirits of us, who assembled 
frequently together, formed ourselves into a Literary, Scien- 
tific, and Philosophical Society, and fancied ourselves the 
most learned Philos in existence. Every one had a great 
character assigned him, suggested by some casual habit or 
affectation. One heavy fellow drank an enormous quantity 
of tea, rolled in his arm-chair, talked sententiously, pro- 
nounced dogmatically, and was considered a second Dr. 
Johnson; another, who happened to be a curate, uttered 
coarse jokes, wrote doggerel rhymes, and was the Swift of 


our association. Thus we had also our Popes, and Gold- 


140 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


smiths, and Addisons; and a blue-stocking lady, whose draw, 
ing-room we frequented, who corresponded about nothing 
with all the world, and wrote letters with the stiffness and 
formality of a printed book, was cried up as another Mrs. 
Montagu. Iwas, by common consent, the juvenile prodigy, 
the poetical youth, the great genius, the pride and hope of the 
village, through whom it was to become one day as cele- 
brated as Stratford on Avon. 

My father died, and left me his blessing and his business. 
His blessing brought no money into my pocket; and as to 
his business, it soon deserted me; for I was busy writing 
poetry, and could not attend to law, and my clients, though 
they had great respect for my talents, had no faith in a poet- 
ical attorney. 

I lost my business, therefore, spent my money, and fin- 
ished my poem. It was the Pleasures of Melancholy, and 
was cried up to the skies by the whole circle. The Pleasures 
of Imagination, the Pleasures of Hope, and the Pleasures of 
Memory, though each had placed its author in the first rank 
of poets, were blank prose in comparison. Our Mrs. Mon- 
tagu would cry over it from beginning to end. It was 
pronounced by all the members of the Literary, Scientific, 
and Philosophical Society, the greatest poem of the age, and 
all anticipated the noise it would make in the great world. 
There was not a doubt but the London booksellers would be 
mad after it, and the only fear of my friends was, that I 
would make a sacrifice by selling it too cheap. Every time 
they talked the matter over, they increased the price. They 
reckoned up the great sums given for the poems of certain 


popular writers, and determined that mine was worth more 


THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 141 


than all put together, and ought to be paid for accordingly. 
For my part, 1 was modest in my expectations, and deter- 
mined that I would be satisfied with a thousand guineas. So 
] put my poem in my pocket, and set off for London. 

My journey was joyous. My heart was light as my 
purse, and my head full of anticipations of fame and fortune. 
With what swelling pride did I cast my eyes upon old 
London from the heights of Highgate! I was like a general, 
looking down upon a place he expects to conquer. The great 
metropolis lay stretched before me, buried under a home- 
made cloud of murky smoke, that wrapped it from the 
brightness of a sunny day, and formed for it a kind of 
artificial bad weather. At the outskirts of the city, away to 
the west, the smoke gradually decreased until all was clear 
and sunny, and the view stretched uninterrupted to the blue 
line of the Kentish hills. 

My eye turned fondly to where the mighty cupola of St. 
Paul’s swelled dimly through this misty chaos, and I pictured 
to myself the solemn realm of learning that lies about its 
base. How soon should the Pleasures of Melancholy throw 
this world of booksellers and printers into a bustle of bus- 
iness and delight! How soon should I hear my name 
_ repeated by printers’ devils throughout Paternoster-row, and 
Angel-court, and Ave-Maria-lane, until Amen-corner should 
echo back the sound! 

Arrived in town, I repaired at once to the most fashion- 
able publisher. Every new author patronizes him of course. 
In fact, it had been determined in the village circle that he 
should be the fortunate man. I cannot tell you how vain- 
gloriously I walked the streets. My head was in the clouds. 


142 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


I felt the airs of heaven playing about it, and fancied it 
already encircled by a halo of literary glory. As I passed 
by the windows of book-shops, I anticipated the time when 
my work would be shining among the hot-pressed wonders of 
the day ; and my face, scratched on copper, or cut on wood, 
figuring in fellowship with those of Scott, and Byron, and 
Moore. 

When I applied at the publisher’s house, there was some- 
thing in the loftiness of my air, and the dinginess of my 
dress, that struck the clerks with reverence. They doubtless 
took me for some person of consequence ; probably a digger 
of Greek roots, or a penetrater of pyramids. A proud man 
in a dirty shirt is always an imposing character in the world 
of letters; one must feel intellectually secure before he can 
venture to dress shabbily; none but a great genius, or a 
great scholar, dares to be dirty ; so I was ushered at once to 
the sanctum sanctorum of this high priest of Minerva. 

The publishing of books is a very different affair nowa- 
days from what it was in the time of Bernard Lintot. I 
found the publisher a fashionably-dressed man, in an elegant 
drawing-room, furnished with sofas, and portraits of cele- 
brated authors, and cases of splendidly-bound books. He 
was writing letters at an elegant table. This was transacting 
business in style. The place seemed suited to the magnifi- 
cent publications that issued from it. I rejoiced at the choice 
I had made of a publisher, for I always liked to encourage men 
of taste and spirit. 

I stepped up to the table with the lofty poetical port I 
had been accustomed to maintain in our village circle ; 


though I threw in it something of a patronizing air, such -as 


THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 143 


one feels when about to make a man’s fortune. The pub- 
lisher paused with his pen in hand, and seemed waiting in 
mute suspense to know what was to be announced by so sin- 
gular an apparition. 

I put him at his ease in a moment, for I felt that I had 
but to come, see, and conquer. I made known my name, 
and the name of my poem; produced my precious roll of 
blotted manuscript ; laid it on the table with an emphasis ; 
and told him at once, to save time, and come directly to the 
point, the price was one thousand guineas. 

I had given him no time to speak, nor did he seem so in- 
clined. He continued looking at me for a moment with an 
air of whimsical perplexity ; scanned me from head to foot ; 
looked down at the manuscript, then up again at me, then 
pointed to a chair; and whistling softly to himself, went on 
writing his letter. 

I sat for some time waiting his reply, supposing he was 
making up his mind; but he only paused occasionally to 
take afresh dip of ink, to stroke his chin, or the tip of his 
nose, and then resumed his writing. It was evident his mind 
was intently occupied upon some other subject ; but I had no 
idea that any other subject could be attended to, and my 
poem lie unnoticed on the table. I had supposed that every 
thing would make way for the Pleasures of Melancholy. 

My gorge at length rose within me. I took up my manu- 
script, thrust it into my pocket, and walked out of the room ; 
making some noise as I went out, to let my departure be 
heard. The publisher, however, was too much buried in 
minor concerns to notice it. I was suffered to walk down 
stairs without being called back. I sallied forth into the 


144 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


street, but no clerk was sent after me; nor did the publisher 
call after me from the drawing-room window. I have been 
told since, that he considered me either a madman or a fool. 
I leave you to judge how much he was in the wrong in his 
opinion. 

When I turned the corner my crest fell. I cooled down 
in my pride and my expectations, and reduced my terms with 
the next bookseller to whom I applied. I had no better 
success ; nor with a third, nor with a fourth. I then desired 
the booksellers to make an offer themselves ; but the deuce 
an offer would they make. They ‘told me poetry was a 
mere drug; everybody wrote poetry ; the market was over- 
stocked with it. And then they said, the title of my poem 
was not taking; that pleasures of all kinds were worn thread- 
bare, nothing but horrors did nowadays, and even those were 
almost worn out. Tales of Pirates, Robbers, and bloody 
Turks, might answer tolerably well; but then they must 
come from some established well-known name, or the publie 
would not look at them. 

At last I offered to leave my poem with a bookseller to 
read it, and judge for himself. “ Why, really, my dear Mr. 
——a—a—lI forget your name,” said he, casting his eye at 
my rusty coat and shabby gaiters, “really, sir, we are so 
pressed with business just now, and have so many manu- 
scripts on hand to read, that we have not time to look at 
any new productions; but if you can call again in a week 
or two, or say the middle of next month, we may be able 
to look over your writings, and give you an answer. Don’t 
forget, the month after next; good morning sir; happy to 
see you any time you are passing this way.” So saying, he 


THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 145 


bowed me out in the civilest way imaginable. In short, sir, 
instead of an eager competition to secure my poem, I could 
not even ect it read! In the mean time I was harassed by 
letters from my friends, wanting to know when the work 
was to appear; who was to be my publisher ; and above all 
things, warning me not to let it go too cheap. 

There was but one alternative left. I determined to 
publish the poem myself; and to have my triumph over the 
booksellers when it should become the fashion of the day. I 
accordingly published the Pleasures of Melancholy, and 
ruined myself. Excepting the copies sent to the reviews, 
and to my friends in the country, not one, I believe, ever left 
the bookseller’s warehouse. The printer’s bill drained my 
purse, and the only notice that was taken of my work, was 
contained in the advertisements paid for by myself. 

I could have borne all this, and have attributed it, as 
usual, to the mismanagement of the publisher, or the want 
of taste in the public; and could have made the usual appeal 
to posterity ; but my village friends would not let me resi 
in quiet. They were picturing me to themselves feasting 
with the great, communing with the literary, and in the high 
career of fortune and renown. Every little while, some one 
would call on me with a letter of introduction from the village 
circle, recommending him to my attentions, and requesting 
that I would make him known in society ; with a hint, that 
an introduction to a celebrated literary nobleman would be 
extremely agreeable. I determined, therefore, to change my 
lodgings, drop my correspondence, and disappear altogether 
from the view of my village admirers. Besides, I was anx 


ious to make one more poetic attempt. I was by no means 


146 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


disheartened by the failure of my first. My poem was evident- 
ly too didactic. The public was wise enough. It no longer 
read for instruction. “They want horrors, do they ?” said 
I: “Tfaith! then they shall have enough of them.” So I 
looked out for some quiet, retired place, where I might be 
out of the reach of my friends, and have leisure to cook up 
some delectable dish of poetical “ hell-broth.” 

I had some difficulty in finding a place to my mind, when 
chance threw me in the way of Canonbury Castle. It is an 
ancient brick tower, hard by “ merry Islington;” the re- 
mains of a hunting-seat of Queen Elizabeth, where she took 
the pleasure of the country when the neighborhood was all 
woodland. What gave it particular interest in my eyes 
was the circumstance that it had been the residence of a 
poet. 

It was here Goldsmith resided when he wrote his 
Deserted Village. I was shown the very apartment. It 
was a relic of the original style of the castle, with panelled 
wainscots and Gothic windows. I was pleased with its air 
of antiquity, and with its having been the residence of poor 
Goldy. 

“ Goldsmith was a pretty poet,” said I to myself, “a very 
pretty poet, though rather of the old school. He did not 
think and feel so strongly as is the fashion nowadays; but 
had he lived in these times of hot hearts and hot heads, he 
would no doubt have written quite differently.” 

In a few days I was quietly established in my new quar- 
ters; my books all arranged; my writing-desk placed by a 
window looking out into the fields; and I felt as snug as 
Robinson Crusoe, when he had finished his bower. | For 


THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 147 


several days I enjoyed all the novelty of the change and the 
charms which grace new lodgings, before one has found out 
their defects. I rambled about the fields where I fancied 
Goldsmith had rambled. I explored merry Islington; ate 
my solitary dinner at the Black Bull, which, according to 
tradition, was a country-seat of Sir Walter Raleigh; and 
would sit and sip my wine, and muse on old times, in a 
quaint old room, where many a council had been held. 

All this did very well for a few days. I was stimulated 
by novelty; inspired by the associations awakened in my 
mind by these curious haunts; and began to think I felt the 
spirit of composition stirring within me. But Sunday came, 
and with it the whole city world, swarming about Canon- 
bury Castle. I could not open my window but I was stunned 
with shouts and noises from the cricket-ground; the late 
quiet road beneath my window was alive with the tread of 
feet and clack of tongues; and, to complete my misery, | 
found that my quiet retreat was absolutely a ‘“ show-house,” 
the tower and its contents being shown to strangers at six- 
pence a head. 

There was a perpetual tramping up stairs-of citizens and 
their families, to look about the country from the top of the 
tower, and to take a peep at the city through the telescope, 
to try if they could discern their own chimneys. And then, 
in the midst of a vein of thought, or a moment of inspiration, 
I was interrupted, and all my ideas put to flight, by my in- 
tolerable landlady’s tapping at the door, and asking me if I 
would “just please to let a lady and gentleman come in, to 
take a look at Mr. Goldsmith’s room.” If you know any 
thing of what an author’s study is, and what an author is 


148 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


himself, you must know that there was no standing this. I 
put positive interdict on my room’s being exhibited; but 
then it was shown when I was absent, and my papers put 
in confusion ; and, on returning home one day, I absolutely 
found a cursed tradesman and his daughters gaping over my 
manuscripts, and my landlady in a panic at my appearance. 
I tried to make out a little longer, by taking the key in my 
pocket; but it would not do. I overheard mine hostess one 
day telling some of her customers on the stairs, that the 
room was occupied by an author, who was always in a tan- 
trum if interrupted; and I immediately perceived, by a 
slight noise at the door, that they were peeping at me 
through the key-hole. By the head of Apollo, but this 
was quite too much! With all my eagerness for fame, and 
my ambition of the stare of the million, I had no idea of 
being exhibited by retail, at sixpence a head, and _ that 
through a key-hole. So I bid adieu to Canonbury Castle, 
merry Islington, and the haunts of poor Goldsmith, without 
having advanced a single line in my labors. 

My next quarters were at a small, whitewashed cottage, 
which stands not far from Hampstead, just on the brow of a 
hill; looking over Chalk Farm and Camden Town, remark- 
able for the rival houses of Mother Red Cap and Mother 
Black Cap ; and so across Crackskull Common to the distant 
city. 

The cottage was in nowise remarkable in itself; but I re- 
garded it with reverence, for it had been the asylum of a 
persecuted author. Hither poor Steele had retreated, and 
laid perdu, when persecuted by creditors and bailiffs—those 
immemorial plagues of authors and free-spirited gentlemen ; 


THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 149 


and here he had written many numbers of the Spectator. It 
was hence, too, that he had despatched those little notes to 
his lady, so full of affection and whimsicality, in which the 
fond husband, the careless gentleman, and the shifting spend- 
thrift, were so oddly blended. I thought, as I first eyed the 
window of his apartment, that I could sit within it and write 
volumes. 

No such thing! It was haymaking season, and, as ill 
luck would have it, immediately opposite the cottage was a 
little ale-house, with the sign of the Load of Hay. Whether 
it was there in Steele’s time, I cannot say; but it set all 
attempts at conception or inspiration at defiance. It was the 
resort of all the Irish haymakers who mow the broad fields 
in the neighborhood; and of drovers and teamsters who 
travel that road. Here they would gather in the endless 
summer twilight, or by the light of the harvest moon, and 
sit around a table at the door; and tipple, and laugh, and 
quarrel, and fight, and sing drowsy songs, and dawdle away 
the hours, until the deep solemn notes of St. Paul’s clock 
would warn the varlets home. 

In the daytime I was less able to write. It was broad 
summer. The haymakers were at work in the fields, and 
the perfume of the new-mown hay brought with it the recol- 
lection of my native fields. So instead of remaining in my 
room to write, I went wandering about Primrose Hill, and 
Hampstead Heights, and Shepherd’s Fields, and all those 
Arcadian scenes so celebrated by London bards. I cannot 
tell you how many delicious hours I have passed, lying on the 
cocks of the new-mown hay, on the pleasant slopes of some 


of those hills, inhaling the fragrance of the fields, while the 


150 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


summer-fly buzzed about me, or the grasshopper leaped into 
my bosom ; and how I have gazed with half-shut eye upon the 
smoky mass of London, and listened to the distant sound of 
its population, and pitied the poor sons of earth, toiling in its 
bowels, like Gnomes in the “ dark gold mines,” 

People may say what they please about cockney pas- 
torals, but, after all, there is a vast deal of rural beauty 
about the western vicinity of London; and any one that has 
looked down upon the valley of the West End, with its soft 
bosom of green pasturage lying open to the south, and dotted 
with cattle; the steeple of Hampstead rising among rich 
groves on the brow of the hill; and the learned height of 
Harrow in the distance; will confess that never has he seen 
amore absolutely rural landscape in the vicinity of a great 
metropolis. 

Still, however, I found myself not a whit the better off for 
my frequent change of lodgings; and I began to discover, 
that in literature, as in trade, the old proverb holds good, “a 
rolling stone gathers no moss.” 

The tranquil beauty of the country played the very 
vengeance with me. I could not mount my fancy into the 
termagant vein. I could not conceive, amidst the smiling 
landscape, a scene of blood and murder; and. the smug citi- 
zens in breeches and gaiters put all ideas of heroes and 
bandits out of my brain. I could think of nothing but dulcet 
subjects, “the Pleasures of Spring ”—“ the Pleasures of 
Solitude ”—“ the Pleasures of Tranquillity ”—‘ the Pleasures 
of Sentiment ”—nothing but pleasures; and I had the pain- 
ful experience of “the Pleasures of Melancholy ” too strongly 


in my recollection to be beguiled by them. 


THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 151 


Chance at length befriended me. I had frequently, in my 
ramblings, loitered about Hampstead Hill, which is a kind 
of Parnassus of the metropolis. At such times I occasionally 
took my dinner at Jack Straw’s Castle. It is a country inn 
so named; the very spot where that notorious rebel and his 
followers held their council of war. It is a favorite resort of 
citizens when rurally inclined, as it commands fine fresh air, 
and a good view of the city. I sat one day in the public 
room of this inn, ruminating over a beefsteak and a pint of 
porter, when my imagination kindled up with ancient and 
heroic images. I had long wanted a theme and a hero; both 
suddenly broke upon my mind. I determined to write a 
poem on the history of Jack Straw. I was so full of the sub- 
ject, that I was fearful of being anticipated. I wondered that 
none of the poets of the day in their search after ruffian 
heroes, had never thought of Jack Straw. I went to work 
pell-mell, blotted several sheets of paper with choice floating 
thoughts, and battles, and descriptions, to be ready at a 
moment’s warning. Ina few days’ time 1 sketched out the 
skeleton of my poem, and nothing was wanting but to give it 
flesh and blood. I used to take my manuscript, and stroll 
about Caen-wood, and read aloud; and would dine at the 
Castle, by way of keeping up the vein of thought. 

I was there one day, at rather a late hour, in the public 
room. There was no other company but one man, who sat 
enjoying his pint of porter at the window, and noticing the 
passers by. He was dressed in a green shooting-coat. His 
countenance was strongly marked: he had a hooked nose; 
a romantic eye, excepting that it had something of a squint ; 
and altogether, as I thought, a poetical style of head. I was 


152 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


quite taken with the man, for you must know I am a little 
of a physiognomist; I set him down at once for either a 
poet or a philosopher. 

As I like to make new acquaintances, considering every 
man a volume of human nature, I soon fell into conversa- 
tion with the stranger, who, I was pleased to find, was by no 
means difficult of access. After I had dined, I joined him at 
the window, and we became so sociable that I proposed a 
bottle of wine together, to which he most cheerfully assented. 

I was too full of my poem to keep long quiet on the sub- 
ject, and began to talk about the origin of the tavern, and 
the history of Jack Straw. I found my new acquaintance to 
be perfectly at home on the topic, and to jump exactly with 
my humor in every respect. I became elevated by the wine 
and the conversation. In the fulness of an author’s feelings, 
I told him of my projected poem, and repeated some passa- 
ges, and he was in raptures. He was evidently of a strong 
poetical turn, 

“Sir,” said he, filling my glass at the same time, “ our 
poets don’t look at home. I don’t see why we need go out 
of old England for robbers and rebels to write about. I 
like your Jack Straw, sir,—he’s a home-made hero. I like 
him, sir—I like him exceedingly. He’s English to the back- 
bone—damme—Give me honest old England after all! 
Them’s my sentiments, sir.” 

“YT honor your sentiment,” cried I, zealously; “it is 
exactly my own. An English ruffan is as good a ruffian for 
poetry as any in Italy, or Germany, or the Archipelago ; but 
it is hard to make our poets think so.” 


“More shame for them!” replied the man in green. 


THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 154 


“ What a plague would they have? What have we to do 
with their Archipelagos of Italy and Germany? Haven't 
we heaths and commons and highways on our own little 
island—ay, and stout fellows to pad the hoof over them too ? 
Stick to home, I say,—them’s my sentiments.—Come, sir, 
my service to you—lI agree with you perfectly.” 

“Poets, in old times, had right notions on this sub- 
“ject,” continued I; “ witness the fine old ballads about Robin 
Hood, Allan a’ Dale, and other stanch blades of yore.” 

“Right, sir, right,” interrupted he; “ Robin Hood! he 
was the lad to cry stand! to a man, and never to flinch.” 

“ Ah, sir,” said I, “they had famous bands of robbers in 
the good old times; those were glorious poetical days. The 
merry crew of Sherwood Forest, who led such a roving 
picturesque life, ‘under the greenwood tree.’ I have often 
wished to visit their haunts, and tread the scenes of the 
exploits of Friar Tuck, and Clymm of the Clough, and Sir 
William of Cloudeslie.” 

“Nay, sir,” said the gentleman in green, “ we have had 
several very pretty gangs since that day. Those gallant dogs 
that kept about the great heaths in the neighborhood of London, 
about Bagshot, and Hounslow, and Blackheath, for instance. 
Come, sir, my service to you. You don’t drink.” 

“T suppose,” cried I, emptying my glass, “1 suppose you 
have heard of the famous Turpin, who was born in this very 
village of Hampstead, and who used to lurk with his gang in 
Epping Forest about a hundred years since ?” 

“Have 12” cried he, “to be sure I have! A hearty 
old blade that. Sound as pitch.. Old Turpentine! as we 
used to call him. A famous fine fellow, sir.” 


154 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


“Well, sir,” continued J, “I have visited Waltham Abbey 
and Chingford Church merely from the stories I heard when 
a boy of his exploits there, and I have searched Epping 
Forest for the cavern where he used to conceal himself, You 
must know,” added J, “ that Iam a sort of amateur of high- 
waymen. They were dashing, daring fellows: the best apol- 
ogies that we had for the knights-errant of yore. Ah, sir! 
the country has been sinking gradually into tameness and 
commonplace. We are losing the old English spirit. The 
bold knights of the Post have all dwindled down into lurking 
footpads, and sneaking pickpockets; there’s no such thing as 
a dashing, gentleman-like robbery committed nowadays on 
the King’s highway : a man may roll from one end of Eng- 
land to the other in a drowsy coach, or jingling post-chaise, 
without any other adventure than that of being occasionally 
overturned, sleeping in damp sheets, or having an ill-cooked 
dinner. We hear no more of public coaches being stopped 
and robbed by a well-mounted gang of resolute fellows, with 
pistols in their hands, and crapes over their faces. What 
a pretty poetical incident was it, for example, in do- 
mestic life, for a family carriage, on its way to a country 
seat, to be attacked about dark; the old gentleman eased of 
his purse and watch, the ladies of their necklaces and ear-rings, 
by a politely-spoken highwayman on a blood mare, who 
afterwards leaped the hedge and galloped across the country, 
to the admiration of Miss Caroline, the daughter, who would 
write a long and romantic account of the adventure to her 
friend, Miss Juliana, in town. Ah, sir! we meet with noth- 
ing of such incidents nowadays.” 


“That, sir,” said my companion, taking advantage of a 


THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 155 


pause, when I stopped to recover breath, and to take a glass 
of wine which he had just poured out, “that, sir, craving 
your pardon, is not owing to any want of old English pluck. 
It is the effect of this cursed system of banking. People do 
not travel with bags of gold as they did formerly. They 
have post notes, and drafts on bankers. To rob a coach is 
like catching a crow, where you have nothing but carrion flesh 
and feathers for your pains. But a coach in old times, sir, 
was as rich as a Spanish galleon. It turned out the yellow 
boys bravely. And a private carriage was a cool hundred or 
two at least.” 

I cannot express how much I was delighted with the 
sallies of my new acquaintance. He told me that he often 
frequented the Castle, and would be glad to know more of 
me; and I proposed myself many a pleasant afternoon with 
him, when I should read him my poem as it proceeded, and 
benefit by his remarks; for it was evident he had the true 
poetical feeling. 

“ Come, sir,” said he, pushing the bottle: “ Damme, I 
like you! youre a man after my own heart. I’m cursed 
slow in making new acquaintances. One must be on the 
reserve, you know. But when I meet with a man of your 
kidney, damme, my heart jumps at once to him. Them’s 
my sentiments, sir. Come, sir, here’s Jack Straw’s health! I 
presume one can drink it nowadays without treason !” 

“With all my heart,” said I gayly, “and Dick Turpin’s 
into the bargain!” 

“ Ah, sir,” said the man in green, “those are the kind of 


men for poetry. The Newgate Calendar, sir! the Newgate 


156 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


Calendar is your only reading! There’s the place to look 
for bold deeds and dashing fellows.” 

We were so much pleased with each other that we sat 
until a late hour. I insisted on paying the bill, for both my 
purse and my heart were full, and I agreed that he should 
pay the score at our next meeting. As the coaches had all 
gone that run between Hampstead and London, we had to 
return on foot. He was so delighted with the idea of my 
poem, that he could talk of nothing else. He made me 
repeat such passages as I could remember ; and thouglf I did 
it in a very mangled manner, having a wretched memory, 
yet he was in raptures. 

Every now and then he would break out with some scrap 
which he would misquote most terribly, would rub his hands 
and exclaim, “ By Jupiter, that’s fine, that’s noble! Damme, 
sir, if I can conceive how you hit upon such ideas!” 

I must confess I did not always relish his misquotations, 
which sometimes made absolute nonsense of the passages ; 
but what author stands upon trifles when he is praised ? 

Never had I spent a more delightful evening. I did not — 
perceive how the time flew. I could not bear to separate, 
but continued walking on, arm in arm, with him, past my 
lodgings, through Camden Town, and across Crackskull Com- 
mon, talking the whole way about my poem. 

When we were half way across the common, he inter- 
rupted me in the midst of a quotation, by telling me that this 
had been a famous place for footpads, and was still occasion- 
ally infested by them; and that a man had recently been 
shot there in attempting to defend himself.—* The more fool 


he!” cried 1; “a man is an idiot to risk life, or even limb, to 


THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 157 


save a paltry purse of money. It’s quite a different case 
from that of a duel, where one’s honor is concerned. For my ~ 
part,” added J, “I should never think of making resistance 
against one of those desperadoes.” 

“Say you so?” cried my friend in green, turning suddenly 
upon me, and putting a pistol to my breast; “ why, then, 
have at you, my lad !—come—disburse ! empty! unsack !” 

In a word, I found that the muse had played me another 
of her tricks, and had betrayed me into the hands of a foot- 
pad. There was no time to parley; he made me turn my 
pockets inside out; and hearing the sound of distant foot- 
steps, he made one fell swoop upon purse, watch, and all; 
gave me a thwack on my unlucky pate that Jaid me sprawl- 
ing on the ground, and scampered away with his booty. 

I saw no more of my friend in green until a year or two 
afterwards ; when I caught sight of his poetical countenance 
among a crew of scapegraces heavily ironed, who were on the 
way for transportation. He recognized me at once, tipped 
me an impudent wink, and asked me how I came on with the 
history of Jack Straw’s Castle. 

The catastrophe at Crackskull Common put an end to my 
summer’s campaign. I was cured of my poetical enthusiasm 
for rebels, robbers, and highwaymen. Iwas put out of con- 
ceit of my subject, and, what was worse, I was lightened of 
my purse, in which was almost every farthing I had in the 
world. So I abandoned Sir Richard Steele’s cottage in de- 
spair, and crept into less celebrated, though no less poetical 
and airy lodgings in a garret in town. 

I now determined to cultivate the society of the literary, 


and to enroll myself in the fraternity of authorship. It is by 
7% 


158 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


the constant collision of mind, thought I, that authors strike 
out the sparks of genius, and kindle up with glorious concep- 
tions. Poetry is evidently a contagious complaint. I will 
keep company with poets; who knows but I may catch it as 
others have done? 

I found no difficulty in making a circle of literary ac- 
quaintances, not having the sin of success lying at my door : 
indeed the failure of my poem was a kind of recommendation 
to their favor. It is true my new friends were not of the 
most brilliant names in literature; but then if you would 
take their words for it, they were like the prophets of old, 
men of whom the world was not worthy ; and who were to 
live in future ages, when the ephemeral favorites of the day 
should be forgotten. 

I soon discovered, however, that the more I mingled in 
literary society, the less I felt capable of writing; that poetry 
was not so catching as | imagined; and that in familiar life 
there was often nothing less poetical than a poet. Besides, I 
wanted the esprit du corps to turn these literary fellowships to 
any account. I could not bring myself to enlist in any par- 
ticular sect. I saw something to like in them all, but found 
that would never do, for that the tacit condition on which a 
man enters into one of these sects is, that he abuses all 
the rest. 

I perceived that there were little knots of authors who 
lived with, and for, and by one another. They considered 
themselves the salt of the earth. They fostered and kept up 
a conventional vein of thinking and talking, and joking on all 
subjects; and they cried each other up to the skies. Each 


sect had its particular creed; and set up certain authors as 


THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 159 


divinities, and fell down and worshipped them; and consid- 
ered every one who did not worship them, or who wor- 
_ shipped any other, as a heretic, and an infidel. 

In quoting the writers of the day, I generally found them 
extolling names of which I had scarcely heard, and talking 
slightingly of others who were the favorites of the public. If 
I mentioned any recent work from the pen of a first-rate 
author, they had not read it; they had not time to read all 
that was spawned from the press; he wrote too much to 
write well ;—and then they would break out into raptures 
about some Mr. Timson, or Tomson, or Jackson, whose 
works were neglected at the present day, but who was to be 
the wonder and delight of posterity! Alas! what heavy 
debts is this neglectful world daily accumulating on the 
shoulders of poor posterity ! 

But, above all, it was edifying to hear with what con- 
tempt they would talk of the great. Ye gods! how immeas- 
urably the great are despised by the small fry of literature ! 
It is true, an exception was now and then made of some 
nobleman, with whom, perhaps, they had casually shaken 
hands at an election, or hob or nobbed ata public dinner, 
and was pronounced a “ devilish good fellow,” and “no 
humbug ;” but, in general, it was enough for a man to have 
a title, to be the object of their sovereign disdain: you have 
no idea how poetically and philosophically they would talk of 
nobility. . 

For my part this affected me but little; for though I had 
no bitterness against the great, and did not think the worse 
of a man for having innocently been born to a title, yet J] did 
not feel myself at present called upon to resent the indignities 


160 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


poured upon them by the little. But the hostility to the 
great writers of the day went sore against the grain with me. 
I could not enter into such feuds, nor participate in such 
animosities. I had not become author sufficiently to hate 
other authors. I could still find pleasure in the novelties of 
the press, and could find it in my heart to praise a contem- 
porary, even though he were successful. Indeed I was mis- 
cellaneous in my taste, and could not confine it to any age or 
growth of writers. I could turn with delight from the glow- 
ing pages of Byron to the cool and polished raillery of Pope ; 
and after wandering among the sacred groves of Paradise 
Lost, 1 could give myself up to voluptuous abandonment in 
the enchanted bowers of Lalla Rookh. 

“JT would have my authors,” said I, “as various as my 
wines, and, in relishing the strong and the racy, would never 
decry the sparkling and exhilarating. Port and Sherry are 
excellent stand-bys, and so is Madeira; but Claret and Bur- 
gundy may be drunk now and then without disparagement to 
one’s palate, and Champagne is a beverage by no means to be 
despised.” 

Such was the tirade I uttered one day when a little 
flushed with ale at a literary club. I uttered it too, with 
something of a flourish, for I thought my simile a clever one. 
Unluckily, my auditors were men who drank beer and hated 
Pope; so my figure about wines went for nothing, and my 
critical toleration was looked upon as downright heterodoxy. 
In a word, I soon became like a freethinker in religion, an 
outlaw from every sect, and fair game for all. Such are the 
melancholy consequences of not hating in literature. 


I see you are growing weary, so I will be brief with the 


THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 161 


residue of my literary career. I will not detain you with a 
detail of my various attempts to get astride of Pegasus; of 
the poems IJ have written which were never printed, the plays 
I have presented which were never performed, and the tracts 
I have published which were never purchased. It seemed as 
if booksellers, managers, and the very public, had entered 
into a conspiracy to starve me. Still I could not prevail 
upon myself to give up the trial, nor abandon those dreams 
of renown in which I had indulged. How should I be able to 
look the literary circle of my native village in the face, if I 
were so completely to falsify their predictions? For some 
time longer, therefore, I continued to write for fame, and was, 
of course, the most miserable dog in existence, besides being 
in continual risk of starvation. I accumulated loads of lit- 
erary treasure on my shelves—loads which were to be 
treasures to posterity ; but, alas! they put not a penny into 
my purse. What was all this wealth to my present neces- 
sities? I could not patch my elbows with an ode; nor 
satisfy my hunger with blank verse. “Shall a man fill his 
belly with the east wind?” says the proverb. He may as 
well do so as with poetry. 

I have many a time strolled sorrowfully along, with a sad 
heart and an empty stomach, about five o’clock, and looked 
wistfully down the areas in the west end of the town, and 
seen through the kitchen windows the fires gleaming, and the 
joints of meat turning on the spits and dripping with gravy, 
and the cook-maids beating up puddings, or trussing turkeys, 
and felt for the moment that if I could but have the run of 
one of those kitchens, Apollo and the Muses might have the 
hungry heights of Parnassus for me. Oh, sir! talk of medi- 


162 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


tations among the tombs—they are nothing so melancholy as 
the meditations of a poor devil without penny in pouch, along 
a line of kitchen-windows towards dinner-time. 

At length, when almost reduced to famine and despair, the 
idea all at once entered my head, that perhaps I was not so 
clever a fellow as the village and myself had supposed. It 
was the salvation of me. The moment the idea popped into 
my brain it brought conviction and comfort with it. I awoke 
as from a dream—I gave up immortal fame to those who 
could live on air; took to writing for mere bread; and have 
ever since had a very tolerable life of it. There is no man of 
letters so much at his ease, sir, as he who has no character to 
gain or lose. I had to train myself to it a little, and to elip 
my wings short at first, or they would have carried me up 
into poetry in spite of myself. So I determined to begin by 
the opposite extreme, and abandoning the higher regions of 
the craft, I came plump down to the lowest, and turned 
creeper. 

“Creeper! and pray what is that?” said I. 

“ Oh, sir, I see you are ignorant of the language of the 
craft ; a creeper is one who furnishes the newspapers with 
paragraphs at so much a line; and who goes about in quest 
of misfortunes ; attends the Bow Street Office; the Courts of 
Justice, and every other den of mischief and iniquity. We 
are paid at the rate of a penny a line, and as we can sell the 
same paragraph to almost every paper, we sometimes pick 
up avery decent day’s work. Now and then the Muse is 
unkind, or the day uncommonly quiet, and then we rather 
starve ; and sometimes the unconscionable editors will clip our 
paragraphs when they are a little too rhetorical, and snip off 


THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 163 


two-pence or three-pence at a go. I have many a time had 
my pot of porter snipped off my dinner in this way, and have 
had to dine with dry lips. However, I cannot complain. I 
rose gradually in the lower ranks of the craft, and am now, I 
think, in the most comfortable region of literature.” 

“ And pray,” said I, “ what may you be at present ?” 

“At present,” said he, “I am a regular job writer, and 
turn my hand to any thing. I work up the writings of 
others at so much a sheet; turn off translations; write 
second-rate articles to fill up reviews and magazines; com- 
pile travels and voyages, and furnish theatrical criticisins for 
the newspapers. All this authorship, you perceive, is anony- 
mous; it gives me no reputation except among the trade; 
where I am considered an author of all work, and um always 
sure of employ. That’s the only reputation I want. I sleep 
soundly, without dread of duns or critics, and leave immor- 
tal fame to those that choose to fret and fight about it. Take 
my word for it, the only happy author in this world is he 


? 


who is below the care of reputation.’ 


NiO ORE Diya 


HEN we had emerged from the literary nest of honest 

Dribble, and had passed safely through the dangers of 
Break-neck-stairs, and the labyrinths of Fleet-market, Buck- 
thorne indulged in many comments upon the peep into lite- 
rary life which he had furnished me. 

I expressed my surprise at finding it so different a world 
from what I had imagined. “It is always so,” said he, “ with 
strangers. ‘The land of literature is a fairy land to those who 
view it at a distance, but, like all other landscapes, the charm 
fades on a nearer approach, and the thorns and briers become 
visible. The republic of letters is the most factious and dis- 
cordant of all republics, ancient or modern.” 

“Yet,” said I, smiling, “ you would not have me take 
honest Dribble’s experience as a view of the land. He is but 
a mousing owl; a mere groundling. We should have quite 
a different strain from one of those fortunate authors whom 
we see sporting about the empyreal heights of fashion, like 
swallows in the blue sky of a summer’s day.” 

“Perhaps we might,” replied he, “but I doubt it. 1 
doubt whether if any one, even of the most successful, were 
to tell his actual feelings, you would not find the truth of 
friend Dribble’s philosophy with respect to reputation. One 
you would find carrying a gay face to the world, while some 


NOTORIETY. 165 


vulture critic was preying upon his very liver. Another, 
who was simple enough to mistake fashion for fame, you 
would find watching countenances, and cultivating invitations, 
more ambitious to figure in the beaw monde than the world of 
letters, and apt to be rendered wretched by the neglect of an 
illiterate peer, or a dissipated duchess. Those who were ris- 
ing to fame, you would find tormented with anxiety to get 
higher; and those who had gained the summit, in constant 
apprehension of a decline. 

“ Even those who are indifferent to the buzz of notoriety, 
and the farce of fashion, are not much better off, being inces- 
santly harassed by intrusions on their leisure, and interrup- 
tions of their pursuits; for, whatever may be his feelings, 
when once an author is launched into notoriety, he must go 
the rounds until the idle curiosity of the day is satisfied, and 
he is thrown aside to make way for some new caprice. Upon 
the whole, I do not know but he is most fortunate who 
engages in the whirl through ambition, however tormenting ; 
as it is doubly irksome to be obliged to join in the game 
without being interested in the stake. 

“ There is a constant demand in the fashionable world for 
novelty ; every nine days must have its wonder, no matter 
of what kind. At one time it is an author; at another a 
fire-eater ; at another a composer, an Indian juggler, or an 
Indian chief; a man froin the North Pole or the Pyramids ; 
each figures through his brief term of notoriety, and then 
makes way for the succeeding wonder. You must know that 
we have oddity fanciers among our ladies of rank, who collect 
about them all kinds of remarkable beings ; fiddlers, states- 


men, singers, warriors, artists, philosophers, actors, and poets ; 


166 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


every kind of personage, in short, who is noted for something 
peculiar ; so that their routs are like fancy balls, where every 
one comes ‘ in character.’ 

“T have had infinite amusement at these parties in notic- 
ing how industriously every one was playing a part, and 
acting out of his natural line. There is not a more complete 
game at cross purposes than the intercourse of the literary 
and the great. The fine gentleman is always anxious to be 
thought a wit, and the wit a fine gentleman. 

“| have noticed a lord endeavoring to look wise and talk 
learnedly with a man of letters, who was aiming at a fashion- 
able air, and the tone of a man who had lived about town. 
The peer quoted a score or two of learned authors, with 
whom he would fain be thought intimate, while the author 
talked of Sir John this, and Sir Harry that, and extolled the 
Burgundy he had drunk at Lord Such-a-one’s. Each seemed 
to forget that he could only be interesting to the other in his 
proper character. Had the peer been merely a man of erudi- 
tion, the author would never have listened to his prosing; and 
had the author known all the nobility in the Court Calendar, 
it would have given him no interest in the eyes of the peer. 

“Jn the same way I have seen a fine lady, remarkable for 
beauty, weary a philosopher with flimsy metaphysics, while 
the philosopher put on an awkward air of gallantry, played 
with her fan, and prattled about the Opera. Ihave heard a 
sentimental poet talk very stupidly with a statesman about 
the national debt: and on joining a knot of scientific old gen- 
tlemen conversing in a corner, expecting to hear the discus- 
sion of some valuable discovery, I found they were only 


amusing themselves with a fat story.” 


Pero AOLicoAaAr PHITOSOPHER. 


HE anecdotes I had heard of Buckthorne’s early school- 
mate, together with a variety of pecularities which I had 
remarked in himself, gave me a strong curiosity to know 
something of his own history. Iam a traveller of the good 
old school, and am fond of the custom laid down in books, 
according to which, whenever travellers met, they sat down 
forthwith, and gave a history of themselves and their adven- 
tures. This Buckthorne, too, was a man much to my taste ; 
he had seen the world, and mingled with society, yet retained 
the strong eccentricities of a man who had lived much alone. 
There was a careless dash of good humor about him, which 
pleased me exceedingly ; and at times an odd tinge of melan- 
choly mingled with his humor, and gave it an additional zest. 
He was apt to run into long speculations upon society and 
manners, and to indulge in whimsical views of human nature ; 
yet there was nothing ill-tempered in his satire. It ran more 
upon the follies than the vices of mankind; and even the 
follies of his fellow-man were treated with the leniency of one 
who felt himself to be but frail. He had evidently been a 
little chilled and buffeted by fortune, without being soured 
thereby : as some fruits become mellower and more generous 


in their flavor from having been bruised and frost-bitten. 


168 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


I have always had a great relish for the conversation of 
practical philosophers of this stamp, who have profited by the 
“ sweet uses” of adversity without imbibing its bitterness ; 
who have learnt to estimate the world rightly, yet good- 
humoredly ; and who, while they perceive the truth of the 


saying, that “all is vanity,” 


are yet able to do so without 
vexation of spirit. 

Such a man was Buckthorne. In general a laughing phi- 
losopher ; and if at any time a shade of sadness stole across 
his brow, it was but transient; like a summer cloud, which 
soon goes by, and freshens and revives the fields over which 
it passes. 

I was walking with him one day in Kensington Gardens 
—for he was a knowing epicure in all the cheap pleasures and . 
rural haunts within reach of the metropolis. It was a de- 
lightful warm morning in spring; and he was in the happy 
mood of a pastoral citizen, when just turned loose into grass 
and sunshine. He had been watching a lark which, rising 
from a bed of daisies and yellow-cups, had sung his way up 
to a bright snowy cloud floating in the deep blue sky. 

‘Of all birds,” said he, “I should like to be a lark. He 
revels in the brightest time of the day, in the happiest season 
of the year, among fresh meadows and opening flowers; and 
when he has sated himself with the sweetness of earth, he 
wings his flight up to. heaven as if he would Grink in the 
melody of the morning stars. Hark to that note! How it 
comes thrilling down upon the ear! What a stream of 
music, note falling over note in delicious cadence! Who 
would trouble his head about operas and concerts when he 
could walk in the fields and hear such music for nothing ? 


A PRACTICAL PHILOSOPHER. 169 


These are the enjoyments which set riches at scorn, and make 


even a poor man independent : 


‘I care not, Fortune, what you do deny: 
You cannot rob me of free nature’s grace ; 

You cannot shut the windows of the sky, 
Through which Aurora shows her bright’ning face; 
You cannot bar my constant feet to trace 


The woods and lawns by living streams at eve ' 


“Sir, there are homilies in nature’s works worth all the 
wisdom of the schools, if we could but read them rightly, and 
one of the pleasantest lessons I ever received in time of 
trouble, was from hearing the notes of the lark.” 

I profited by this communicative vein to intimate to 
Buckthorne a wish to know something of the events of his 
life, which I fancied must have been an eventful one. 

He smiled when I expressed my desire. “I have no 
great story,” said he, “to relate. A mere tissue of errors 
and follies. But, such as it is, you shall have one epoch of 
it, by which you may judge of the rest.” And so, without 
any further prelude, he gave me the following anecdotes of 
his early adventures, 


BUC RE Oday ie 


OR, THE YOUNG MAN OF GREAT EXPECTATIONS. 


WAS born to very little property, but to great expecta- 

tions—which is, perhaps, one of the most unlucky fortunes 
aman can be born to. My father was a country gentleman, 
the last of a very ancient and honorable, but decayed family, 
and resided in an old hunting-lodge in Warwickshire. He 
was a keen sportsman, and lived to the extent of his moderate 
income, so that I had little to expect from that quarter; but 
then I had a rich uncle by the mother’s side, a penurious, 
accumulating curmudgeon, who it was confidently expected 
would make me his heir, because he was an old bachelor, 
because I was named after him, and because he hated all the 
world except myself. 

He was, in fact, an inveterate hater, a miser even in mis- 
anthropy, and hoarded up a grudge as he did aguinea. Thus, 
though my mother was an only sister, he had never forgiven 
her marriage with my father, against whom he had a cold, 
still, immovable pique, which had lain at the bottom of his 
heart, like a stone in a well, ever since they had been school- 
boys together. My mother, however, considered me as the 
intermediate being that was to bring every thing again into 


harmony, for she looked upon me as a prodigy—God bless 


BUCKTHORNE. 171 


her! my heart overflows whenever I recall her tenderness. 
She was the most excellent, the most indulgent of mothers. 
I was her only child: it was a pity she had no more, for she 
had fondness of heart enough to have spoiled a dozen! 

I was sent at an early age to a public school, sorely 
against my mother’s wishes; but my father insisted that it 
was the only way to make boys hardy. The school was 
kept by a conscientious prig of the ancient system, who did 
his duty by the boys intrusted to his care: that is to say, we 
were flogged soundly when we did not get our lessons. We 
were put in classes, and thus flogged on in droves along the 
highway of knowledge, in much the same manner as cattle are 
driven to market; where those that are heavy in gait, or 
short in leg, have to suffer for the superior alertness or longer 
limbs of their companions. 

For my part, I confess it with shame, I was an incor- 
rigible laggard. I have always had the poetical feeling, that 
is to say, I] have always been an idle fellow, and prone to 
play the vagabond. I used to get away from my books and 
school whenever I could, and ramble about the fields. I 
was surrounded by seductions for such a temperament. The 
school-house was an old-fashioned whitewashed mansion, of 
wood and plaster, standing on the skirts of a beautiful 
village: close by it was the venerable church, with a. tall 
Gothic spire; before it spread a lovely green valley, with a 
little stream glistening along through willow groves; while a 
line of blue hills bounding the landscape gave rise to many a 
summer-day-dream as to the fairy land that lay beyond. 

In spite of all the scourgings I suffered at that school to 


make-me.love my book, I cannot but. look back. upon the 


172 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


place with fondness. Indeed, I considered this frequent 
flagellation as the common lot of humanity, and the regular 
mode in which scholars were made. 

My kind mother used to lament over my details of the 
sore trials I underwent in the cause of learning; but my 
father turned a deaf ear to her expostulations. He had been 
flogged through school himself, and he swore there was no 
other way of making a man of parts; though, let me speak 
it with all due reverence, my father was but an indifferent 
illustration of his theory, for he was considered a grievous 
blockhead. 

My poetical temperament evinced itself at a very early 
period. The village church was attended every Sunday by a 
neighboring squire, the lord of the manor, whose park 
stretched quite to the village, and whose spacious country- 
seat seemed to take the church under its protection. Indeed, 
you would have thought the church had been consecrated to 
him instead of to the Deity. The parish clerk bowed low 
before him, and the vergers humbled themselves unto the dust 
in his presence. He always entered a little late, and with 
some stir; striking his cane emphatically on the ground, 
swaying his hat in his hand, and looking loftily to the right 
and left as he walked slowly up the aisle; and the parson, 
who always ate his Sunday dinner with him, never com- 
menced service until he appeared. He sat with his family 
in a large pew, gorgeously lined, humbling himself devoutly 
on velvet cushions, and reading lessons of meekness and 
lowliness of spirit out of splendid gold and morocco prayer- 
books. Whenever the parson spoke of the difficulty of a rich 


man’s entering the kingdom of heaven, the eyes of the congre- 


BUCKTHORNE. 15 


gation would turn towards the “ grand pew,” and I thought 
the squire seemed pleased with the application. 

The pomp of this pew, and the aristocratical air of the 
family struck my imagination wonderfully ; and I fell des- 
perately in love with a little daughter of the squire’s, about 
twelve years of age. This freak of fancy made me more 
truant from my studies than ever. I used to stroll about 
the squire’s park, and lurk near the house, to catch glimpses 
of this damsel at the windows, or playing about the lawn, or 
walking out with her governess. 

I had not enterprise nor impudence enough to venture from 
my concealment. Indeed I felt like an arrant poacher, until 
I read one or two of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, when I pictured 
myself as some sylvan deity, and she a coy wood-nymph of 
whom I was in pursuit. There is something extremely deli- 
cious in these early awakenings of the tender passion. I can 
feel even at this moment the throbbing in my boyish bosom, 
whenever by chance I caught a glimpse of her white frock 
fluttering among the shrubbery. I carried about in my 
bosom a volume of Waller, which I had purloined from my 
mother’s library; and I applied to my little fair one all the 
compliments lavished upon Sacharissa. 

At length I danced with her at a school ball. I was so 
awkward a booby, that I dared scarcely speak to her; I was 
filled with awe and embarrassment in her presence; but I was 
so inspired, that my poetical temperament for the first time 
broke out in verse, and I fabricated some glowing rhymes, 
in which I berhymed the little lady under the favorite name 
of Sacharissa. I slipped the verses, trembling and blushing, 
into her hand the next Sunday as she came out of church. 


174 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


The little prude handed them to her mamma; the mamma 
handed them tothe squire; the squire, who had no soul for po- 
etry, sent them in dudgeon to the schoolmaster ; and the school- 
master, with a barbarity worthy of the dark ages, gave me a 
sound and peculiarly humiliating flogging for thus trespassing 
upon Parnassus. This was asad outset for a votary of the muse ; 
it ought to have cured me of my passion for poetry ; but it 
only confirmed it, for I felt the spirit of a martyr rising with- 
in me. What was as well, perhaps, it cured me of my 
passion for the young lady; for I felt so indignant at the 
ignominious horsing I had incurred in celebrating her charms, 
that I could not hold up my head in church. Fortunately 
for my wounded sensibility, the Midsummer holidays came 
on, and I returned home. My mother, as usual, inquired 
into all my school concerns, my little pleasures, and cares, 
and sorrows; for boyhood has its share of the one as well as 
of the other. I told her all, and she was indignant at the treat- 
ment I had experienced. She fired up at the arrogance of 
the squire, and the prudery of the daughter; and as to the 
schoolmaster, she wondered where was the use of having 
schoolmasters, and why boys could not remain at home, 
and be educated by tutors, under the eye of their mothers. 
She asked to see the verses I had written, and she was 
delighted with them; for, to confess the truth, she had a 
pretty taste for poetry. She even showed them to the 
parson’s wife, who protested they were charming; and the 
parson’s three daughters insisted on each haying a copy of 
them. 

All this was exceedingly balsamic, and I was still more 
consoled and encouraged when the young ladies, who were 


BUCKTHORNE. 175 


the bluestockings of the neighborhood, and had read Dr. 
Johnson’s ‘Lives quite through, assured my mother that great 
geniuses never studied, but were always idle; upon which I 
began to surmise that I was myself something out of the 
common run. My father, however, was of a very different 
opinion, for when my mother, in the pride of her heart, 
showed him my copy of verses, he threw them out of the 
window, asking her “ if she meant to make a ballad-monger 
of the boy?” But he was a careless, common-thinking man, 
and I cannot say that I ever loved him much; my mother 
absorbed all my filial affection. 

I used occasionally, on holidays, to be sent on short 
visits to the. uncle who was to make me his heir; they 
thought it would keep me in his mind, and render him fond 
of me. He was a withered, anxious-looking old fellow, and 
lived in a desolate old country-seat, which he suffered to go 
to ruin from absolute niggardliness. He kept but one man- 
servant, who had lived, or rather starved with him for years. 
No woman was allowed to sleep in the house. A daughter 
of the old servant lived by the gate, in what had been a por- 
ter’s lodge, and was permitted to come into the house about 
an hour each day, to make the beds, and cook a morsel of 
provisions. The park that surrounded the house was all run 
wild: the trees were grown out of shape; the fish-ponds 
stagnant ; the urns and statues fallen from their pedestals, and 
buried among the rank grass. The hares and pheasants were 
so little molested, except by poachers, that they bred in 
great abundance, and sported about the rough lawns and 
weedy avenues. To guard the premises, and frighten off 
robbers, of whom he was somewhat apprehensive, and 


176 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


visitors, of whom he was in almost equal awe, my uncle kept 
two or three bloodhounds, who were always prowling round 
the house, and were the dread of the neighboring peasantry. 
They were gaunt and half starved, seemed ready to devour 
one from mere hunger, and were an effectual check on any 
stranger’s approach to this wizard castle. 

Such was my uncle’s house, which I used to visit now and 
then during the holidays. I was, as I before said, the old 
man’s favorite; that is to say, he did not hate me so much 
as he did the rest of the world. I had been apprised of his 
character, and cautioned to cultivate his good will; but I was 
too young and careless to be a courtier, and, indeed, have 
never been sufficiently studious of my interests to let them 
govern my feelings. However, we jogged on very well 
together, and as my visits cost him almost nothing they did 
not seem to be very unwelcome. I brought with me my 
fishing-rod, and half supplied the table from the fish-ponds. 

Our meals were solitary and unsocial. My uncle rarely 
spoke; he pointed to whatever he wanted, and the servant 
perfectly understood him. Indeed, his man John, or Iron 
John, as he was called in the neighborhood, was a counter- 
part of his master. He was a tall, bony old fellow, with a 
dry wig, that seemed made of cow’s tail, and a face as 
tough as though it had been made of cow’s hide. He was 
generally clad in a long, patched livery coat, taken out of the 
wardrobe of the house, and which bagged loosely about him, 
having evidently belonged to some corpulent predecessor, in 
the more plenteous days of the mansion. From long habits 
of taciturnity the hinges of his jaws seemed to have grown 
absolutely rusty, and it cost him as much effort to set them 


BUCKTHORNE. Die 


ajar, and to let out a tolerable sentence, as it would have done 
to set open the iron gates of the park, and let out the old 
family carriage, that was dropping to pieces in the coach- 
house. 

I cannot say, however, but that I was for some time 
amused with my uncle’s peculiarities. Even the very deso- 
lateness of the establishment had something in it that hit my 
fancy. When the weather was fine, I used to amuse myself 
in a solitary way, by rambling about the park, and coursing 
like a colt across its lawns. The hares and pheasants seemed 
to stare with surprise to see a human being walking these 
forbidden grounds by daylight. Sometimes I amused myself 
by jerking stones, or shooting at birds with a bow and arrows, 
for to have used a gun would have been treason. Now and 
then my path was crossed by a little red-headed, ragged-tailed 
urchin, the son of the woman at the lodge, who ran wild 
about the premises. I tried to draw him into familiarity, and 
to make a companion of him, but he seemed to have imbibed 
the strange unsociable character of every thing around him, 
and always kept aloof; so I considered him as another Orson, 
and amused myself with shooting at him with my bow and 
arrows, and he would hold up his breeches with one hand, 
and scamper away like a deer. 

There was something in all this loneliness and wildness 
strangely pleasing to me. The great stables, empty and 
weather-broken, with the names of favorite horses over the 
vacant stalls; the windows bricked and boarded up; the 
broken roofs, garrisoned by rooks and jackdaws, all had a 
singularly forlorn appearance. One would have concluded 


the house to be totally uninhabited, were it not for the little 
Q% 


178 TALES OFA’ TRAVELLER. 


thread of blue smoke which now and then curled up, like a 
corkscrew, from the centre of one of the wide chimneys where 
my uncle’s starveling meal was cooking. 

My uncle’s room was in a remote corner of the building, 
strongly secured, and generally locked. I was never ad- 
mitted into this strong-hold, where the old man would remain 
for the greater part of the time, drawn up, like a veteran 
spider, in the citadel of his web. The rest of the mansion, 
however, was open to me, and I wandered about it uncon- 
strained. The damp and rain which beat in through the 
broken windows, crumbled the paper from the walls, 
mouldered the pictures, and gradually destroyed the furniture. 
I loved to roam about the wide waste chambers in bad 
weather, and listen to the howling of the wind, and the bang- 
ing about of the doors and window-shutters. I pleased my- 
self with the idea how completely, when I came to the estate, 
I would renovate all things, and make the old building ring 
with merriment, till it was astonished at its own jocundity. 

The chamber which I occupied on these visits, had been 
my mother’s when a girl. There was still the toilet-table 
of her own adorning, the landscapes of her own drawing. 
She had never seen it since her marriage, but would often ask 
me, if every thing was still the same. All was just the 
same, for I loved that chamber on her account, and had taken 
pains to put every thing in order, and to mend all the flaws 
in the windows with my own hands. I anticipated the time 
when I should once more welcome her to the house of her 
fathers, and restore her to this little nestling place of her 
childhood. 

_. At length my evil genius, or what, perhaps, is the same 


“‘BUCKTHORNE. ~ 179 


thing, the Muse, inspired me with the notion of rhyming 
again. My uncle, who never went to church, used on 
Sundays to read chapters out of the Bible; and Iron John, 
the woman from the lodge, and myself, were his congrega- 
tion. It seemed to be all one to him what he read, so long 
as it was something from the Bible. Sometimes, therefore, 
it would be the Song of Solomon, and this withered anatomy 
would read about being “ stayed with flagons, and comforted 


> Sometimes he would 


with apples, for he was sick of love.’ 
hobble, with spectacles on nose, through whole chapters of 
hard Hebrew names in Deuteronomy, at which the poor 
woman would sigh and groan, as if wonderfully moved. His 
favorite book, however, was “'The Pilgrim’s Progress ;” and 
when he came to that part which treats of Doubting Castle 
and Giant Despair, I thought invariably of him and his deso- 
late old country-seat. So much did the idea amuse me, that 
I took to scribbling about it under the trees in the park ; and 
in a few days had made some progress in a poem, in which I 
had given a description of the place, under the name of 
Doubting Castle, and personified my uncle as Giant Despair. 

[ lost my poem somewhere about the house, and I soon 
suspected that my uncle had found it, as he harshly intimated 
to me that I could return home, and that I need not come and 
see him again till he should send for me. 

Just about this time my mother died. I cannot dwell 
upon the circumstance. My heart, careless and wayward as 
it is, gushes with the recollection. Her death was an event 
that perhaps gave a turn to all my after fortunes. With her 
died all that made home attractive. I had no longer any- 


body whom I was ambitious to please, or fearful to offend. 


180 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


My father was a good kind of man in his way, but he had 
bad maxims in education, and we differed in material points. 
It makes a vast difference in opinion about the utility of the 
rod, which end happens to fall to one’s share. I never could 
be brought into my father’s way of thinking on the subject. 

I now, therefore, began to grow very impatient of re- 
maining at school, to be flogged for things that I did not like. 
I longed for variety, especially now that I had not my 
uncle’s house to resort to, by way of diversifying the dulness 
of school, with the dreariness of his country-seat. 

I was now almost seventeen, tall for my age, and full of 
idle fancies. I had a roving, inextinguishable desire to see 
different kinds of life, and different orders of society; and 
this vagrant humor had been fostered in me by Tom Dribble, 
the prime wag and great genius of the school, who had all the 
rambling propensities of a poet. 

I used to sit at my desk in the school, on a fine summer’s 
day, and instead of studying the book which lay open before 
me, my eye was gazing through the windows on the green 
fields and blue hills. How I envied the happy groups on the 
tops of stage-coaches, chatting, and joking, and laughing, as 
they were whirled by the school-house on their way to the 
metropolis. Even the wagoners, trudging along beside their 
ponderous teams, and traversing the kingdom from one end 
to the other, were objects of envy to me: I fancied to myself 
what adventures they must experience, and what odd scenes 
of life they must witness. All this was, doubtless, the 
poetical temperament working within me, and tempting me 
forth into a world of its own creation, which I mistook for the 
world of real life. 


BUCKTHORNE. 181 


While my mother lived, this strong propensity to rove 
was counteracted by the stronger attractions of home, and by 
the powerful ties of affection which drew me to her side ;_ but 
now that she was gone, the attraction had ceased; the ties 
were severed. I had no longer an anchorage-ground for my 
heart, but was at the mercy of every vagrant impulse. 
Nothing but the narrow allowance on which my father kept 
me, and the consequent penury of my purse, prevented me 
from mounting to the top of a stage-coach, and launching my- 
self adrift on the great ocean of life. 

Just about this time the village was agitated for a day 
or two, by the passing through of several caravans, contain- 
ing wild beasts, and other spectacles, for a great fair annually 
held at a neighboring town. 

I had never seen a fair of any consequence, and my 
curiosity was powerfully awakened by this bustle of prepara- 
tion. I gazed with respect and wonder at the vagrant per- 
sonages who accompanied these caravans. I loitered about 
the village inn, listening with curiosity and delight to the 
slang talk and cant jokes of the showmen and their followers ; 
and I felt an eager desire to witness this fair, which my 
fancy decked out as something wonderfully fine. 

A holiday afternoon presented, when I could be absent 
from noon until evening. A wagon was going from the 
village to the fair; I could not resist the temptation, nor the 
eloquence of Tom Dribble, who was a truant to the very 
heart’s core. We hired seats, and set off full of boyish ex- 
pectation. I promised myself that I would but take a peep at 
the land of promise, and hasten back again before my absence 


should be noticed. 
R* 


182 TALES -OF -A TRAVELLER. 


Heavens! how happy I was on arriving at the fair! 
How I was enchanted with the world of fun and pageantry 
around me! The humors of Punch, the feats of the equestri- 
ans, the magical tricks of the conjurors! But what principally 
caught my attention was an itinerant theatre, where a tragedy, 
pantomime, and farce, were all acted in the course of half an 
hour; and more of the dramatis persone murdered, than at 
either Drury Lane or Covent Garden in the course of a 
whole evening. I have since seen many a play performed 
by the best actors in the world, but never have I derived 
half the delight from any that I did from this first repre- 
sentation. 

There was a ferocious tyrant in a skullcap like an inverted 
porringer, and a dress of red baize, magnificently embroid- 
ered with gilt leather; with his face so bewhiskered, and his 
eyebrows so knit and expanded with burnt cork, that he 
made my heart quake within me, as he stamped about the 
little stage. I was enraptured too with the surpassing beauty 
of a distressed damsel in faded pink silk, and dirty white 
muslin, whom he held in cruel captivity by way of gaining 
her affections, and who wept, and wrung her hands, and 
flourished a ragged white handkerchief, from the top of an 
impregnable tower of the size of a bandbox. 

Even after I had come out from the play, I could not tear 
myself from the vicinity of the theatre, but lingered, gazing 
and wondering, and laughing at the dramatis persone as they 
performed their antics, or danced upon a stage in front of the 
booth, to decoy a new set of spectators. 

I was so bewildered by the scene, and so lost in the crowd 


of sensations that kept swarming upon me, that I was like one 


“°° BUCKTHORNE.-- - 183 


entranced. I lost my companion, Tom Dribble, in a tumult 
and scuffle that took place near one of the shows; but I was 
too much occupied in mind to think long about him. I 
strolled about until dark, when the fair was lighted up, and a 
new scene of magic opened upon me. The illumination of 
the tents and booths, the brilliant effect of the stages deco- 
rated with lamps, with dramatic groups flaunting about them 
in gaudy dresses, contrasted splendidly with the surrounding 
darkness ; while the uproar of drums, trumpets, fiddles, haut- 
boys, and cymbals, mingled with the harangues of the show- 
men, the squeaking of Punch, and the shouts and laughter of 
the crowd, all united to complete my giddy distraction. 

Time flew without my perceiving it. When I came to 
myself and thought of the school, I hastened.to return. I in- 
quired for the wagon in which I had come: it had been gone 
for hours! I asked the time: it was almost midnight! A 
sudden quaking seized me. How was I to get back to school ? 
I was too weary to make the journey on foot, and I knew not 
where.to apply for a conveyance. Even if I should find one, 
could I venture to disturb the school-house long after midnight 
—to arouse that sleeping lion the usher in the very midst of 
his night’s rest ?—the idea was too dreadful for a delinquent 
schoolboy. All the horrors of return rushed upon me. My 
absence must long before this have been remarked ;—and ab- 
sent for a whole night !—a deed of darkness not easily to be 
expiated. The rod of the pedagogue budded forth into ten- 
fold terrors before my affrighted fancy. I pictured to myself 
punishment and humiliation in every variety of form, and my 
heart sickened at the picture. Alas! how often are the petty 


184 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


ills of boyhood as painful to our tender natures, as are the 
sterner evils of manhood to our robuster minds. 

I wandered about among the booths, and I might have de- 
rived a lesson from my actual feelings, how much the charms 
of this world depend upon ourselves ; for I no longer saw any 
thing gay or delightful in the revelry around me. At length 
I lay down, wearied and perplexed, behind one of the large 
tents, and, covering myself with the margin of the tent cloth, 
to keep off the night chill, I soon fell asleep. 

I had not slept long, when 1 was awakened by the noise 
of merriment within an adjoining booth. It was the itinerant 
theatre, rudely constructed of boards and canvas. I peeped 
through an aperture, and saw the whole dramatis persone, 
tragedy, comedy, and pantomime, all refreshing themselves 
after the final dismissal of their auditors. They were merry 
and gamesome, and made the flimsy theatre ring with their 
laughter. I was astonished to see the tragedy tyrant in red 
baize and fierce whiskers, who had made my heart quake as 
he strutted about the boards, now transformed into a fat, 
good-humored fellow ; the beaming porringer laid aside from 
his brow, and his jolly face washed from all the terrors of 
burnt cork. I was delighted, too, to see the distressed dam- 
sel, in faded silk and dirty muslin, who had trembled under 
his tyranny, and afflicted me so much by her sorrows, now 
seated familiarly on his knee, and quaffing from the same tan- 
kard. Harlequin lay asleep on one of the benches ; and monks, 
satyrs, and vestal virgins, were grouped together, laughing 
outrageously at a broad story told by an unhappy count, who 
had been barbarously murdered in the tragedy. 

This was indeed, novelty to me. It was a peep into 


BUCKTHORNE. 185 


another planet. I gazed and listened with intense curiosity 
and enjoyment. They had a thousand odd stories and jokes 
about the events of the day, and burlesque descriptions and 
mimickings of the spectators who had been admiring them. 
Their conversation was full of allusions to their adventures at 
different places where they had exhibited ; the characters they 
had met with in different villages ; and the ludicrous difficul- 
ties in which they had occasionally been involved. All past 
cares and troubles were now turned, by these thoughtless 
beings, into matters of merriment, and made to contribute 
to the gayety of the moment. They had been moving from 
fair to fair about the kingdom, and were the next morning to 
set out on their way to London. My resolution was taken. 
I stole from my nest, and crept through a hedge into a neigh- 
boring field, where I went to work to make a taterdemalion 
of myself. I tore my clothes; soiled them with dirt; be- 
grimed my face and hands, and crawling near one of the 
booths, purloined an old hat, and left my new one in its 
place. It was an honest theft, and I hope may not hereafter 
rise up in judgment against me. 

I now ventured to the scene of merry-making, and pre- 
senting myself before the dramatic corps, offered myself as a 
volunteer. I felt terribly agitated and abashed, for never be- 
fore “ stood I in such a presence.” I had addressed myself to 
the manager of the company. He was a fat man, dressed in 
dirty white, with a red sash fringed with tinsel swathed round 
his body; his face was smeared with paint, and a majestic 
plume towered from an old spangled black bonnet. He was 
the Jupiter Tonans of this Olympus, and was surrounded by 
the inferior gods and goddesses of his court. He sat on the 


186 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


end of a bench, by a table, with one arm akimbo, and the 
other extended to the handle of a tankard, which he had slowly 
set down from his lips, as he surveyed me from head. to foot. 
It was a moment of awful scrutiny ; and I fancied the groups 
around all watching as in silent suspense, and waiting for the 
imperial nod. 

He questioned me as to who I was; what were my quali- 
fications ; and what terms I expected. I passed myself off 
for a discharged servant from a gentleman’s family ; and as, 
happily, one does not require a special recommendation to get 
admitted into bad company, the questions on that head were 
easily satisfied. As to my accomplishments, I could spout a 
little poetry, and knew several scenes of plays, which I had 
That was 
enough. No further questions were asked me as to accom- 


learnt at school exhibitions, I could dance 


plishments; it was the very thing they wanted; and as I 
asked no wages but merely meat and drink, and safe conduct 
about the world, a bargain was struck in a moment. 

Behold me, therefore, transformed in a sudden from a gen- 
tleman student to a dancing buffoon; for such, in fact, was 
the character in which I made my debut. I was one of those 
who formed the groups in the dramas, and was principally 
employed on the stage in front of the booth to attract com: 
pany. I was equipped as a satyr, ina dress of drab frieze that 
fitted to my shape, with a great laughing mask, ornamented 
with huge ears and short horns. 1 was pleased with the dis- 
guise, because it kept me from the danger of being discovered, 
whilst we were in that part of the country; and as I had 


merely to dance and make antics, the character was favorable 


BUCKTHORNE. ) 187 


to a debutant—being almost on a par with Simon Smug’s 
part of the lion, which required nothing but roaring. 

I cannot tell you how happy I was at this sudden change 
in my situation. I felt no degradation, for I had seen too 
little of society to be thoughtful about the difference of rank ; 
and a boy of sixteen is seldom aristocratical. I had given up 
no friend, for there seemed to be no one in the world that 
eared for me now that my poor mother was dead; I had 
given up no pleasure, for my pleasure was to ramble about 
and indulge the flow of a poetical imagination, and I now en- 
joyed it in perfection. There is no life so truly poetical as 
that of a dancing buffoon. 

It may be said that all this argued grovelling inclinations. 
I do not think so. Not that I mean to vindicate myself in 
any great degree: I know too well what a whimsical com- 
pound lam. But in this instance I was seduced by no love 
of low company, nor disposition to indulge in low vices. I 
have always despised the brutally vulgar, and had a disgust 
at vice, whether in high or low life. I was governed merely 
by a sudden and thoughtless impulse. I had no idea of re- 
sorting to this profession as a mode of life, or of attaching 
myself to these people, as my future class of society. I 
thought merely of a temporary gratification to my curiosity, 
and an indulgence of my humors. I had already a strong 
relish for the peculiarities of character and the varieties of 
situation, and I have always been fond of the comedy of life, 
and desirous of seeing it through all its shifting scenes. . 

In mingling, therefore, among mountebanks and buffoons, 
I was protected by the very vivacity of imagination which 


had led me among them; I moved about, enveloped, as it 


188 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


were, in a protecting delusion, which my fancy spread around 
me. I assimilated to these people only as they struck me 
poetically ; their whimsical ways and a certain picturesque- 
ness in their mode of life entertained me; but I was neither 
amused nor corrupted by their vices. In short, I mingled 
among them, as Prince Hal did among his graceless asso- 
ciates, merely to gratify my humor. 

I did not investigate my motives in this manner, at the 
' time, for I was too careless and thoughtless to reason about 
the matter; but I do so now, when I look back with trem- 
bling to think of the ordeal to which I unthinkingly exposed 
myself, and the manner in which I passed through it. Noth- 
ing, I am convinced; but the poetical temperament, that 
hurried me into the scrape, brought me out of it without my 
becoming an arrant vagabond. 

Full of the enjoyment of the moment, giddy with the 
wildness of animal spirits, so rapturous in a boy, I capered, I 
danced, I played a thousand fantastic tricks about the stage, 
in the villages in which we exhibited; and I was universally 
pronounced the most agreeable monster that had ever been 
seen in those parts. My disappearance from school had 
awakened my father’s anxiety ; for I one day heard a descrip- 
tion of myself cried before the very booth in which I was 
. exhibiting, with the offer of a reward for any intelligence of 
me. I had no great scruple about letting my father suffer a 
little uneasiness on my account; it would punish him for 
past indifference, and would make him value me the more 
when he found me again. 

I have wondered that some of my comrades did not recog- 


nize me in the stray sheep that was cried; but they were all; 


BUCKTHORNE. 189 


no doubt, occupied by their own concerns. They were all 
laboring seriously in their antic vocation; for folly was a 
mere trade with most of them, and they often grinned and 
capered with heavy hearts. | With me, on the contrary, it 
was all real. I acted con amore, and rattled and laughed from 
the irrepressible gayety of my spirits. It is true that, now 
and then, I started and looked grave on receiving a sudden 
thwack from the wooden sword of Harlequin in the course of 
my gambols, as it brought to mind the birch of my school- 
master. But I soon got accustomed to it, and bore all the 
cuffing, and kicking, and tumbling about, which form the 
practical wit of your itinerant pantomime, with a good hu- 
mor that made me a prodigious favorite. 

The country campaign of the troop was soon at an end, 
and we set off for the metropolis, to perform at the fairs 
which are held in its vicinity. The greater part of our 
theatrical property was sent on direct, to be in a state 
of preparation for the opening of the fairs; while a detach- 
ment of the company travelled slowly on, foraging among the 
villages. I was amused with the desultory, hap-hazard kind 
of life we led; here to-day and gone to-morrow. Sometimes 
revelling in ale-houses, sometimes feasting under hedges in 
the green fields. When audiences were crowded, and busi- 
ness profitable, we fared well; and when otherwise, we fared 
scantily, consoled ourselves, and made up with anticipations 
of the next day’s success. 

At length the increasing frequency of coaches hurrying past 
us, covered with passengers; the increasing number of car- 
riages, carts, wagons, gigs, droves of cattle and flocks of sheep, 
all thronging the road, the snug country boxes with trim 


190 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


flower-gardens, twelve feet square, and their trees twelve feet 
high, all powdered with dust, and the innumerable seminaries 
for young ladies and gentlemen situated along the road for 
the benefit of country air and rural retirement; all these in- 
signia announced that the mighty London was at hand. The 
hurry, and the crowd, and the bustle, and the noise, and the 
dust, increased as we proceeded, until I saw the great cloud 
of smoke hanging in the air, like a canopy of state, over this 
queen of cities. 

In this way, then, did I enter the metropolis, a strolling 
vagabond, on the top of a caravan, with a crew of vagabonds 
about me ; but I was as happy as a prince; for, like Prince 
Hal, I felt myself superior to my situation, and knew that I 
could at any time cast it off, and emerge into my proper 
sphere. 

How my eyes sparkled as we passed Hyde Park Corner, 
and I saw splendid equipages rolling by; with powdered 
footmen behind, in rich liveries, with fine nosegays, and gold- 
headed canes; and with lovely women within, so sumptuously 
dressed, and so surpassingly fair! I was always extremely 
sensible to female beauty, and here I saw it in all its powers 
of fascination: for whatever may be said of “ beauty un- 
adorned,” there is something almost awful in female loveliness 
decked out in jewelled state. The swanlike neck encircled 
with diamonds ; the raven locks clustered with pearls; the 
ruby glowing on the snowy bosom, are objects which I could 
never contemplate without emotion; and a dazzling white 
arm clasped with bracelets, and taper, transparent fingers, 
laden with sparkling rings, are to me irresistible. 


My very eyes-ached as I gazed at the high and courtly 


BUCKTHORNE. 191 


beauty before me. It surpassed all that my imagination had 
conceived of the sex. I shrank, for a moment, into shame at 
the company in which I was placed, and repined at the vast 
distance that seemed to intervene between me and these mag- 
nificent beings. 

I forbear to give a detail of the happy life I led about the 
skirts of the metropolis, playing at the various fairs held there 
during the latter part of spring, and the beginning of summer. 
This continued change from place to place, and scene to scene, 
fed my imagination with novelties, and kept my spirits in a 
perpetual state of excitement. As I was tall of my age, I 
aspired, at one time, to play heroes in tragedy; but, after 
two or three trials, I was pronounced by the manager totally 
unfit for the line; and our first tragic actress, who was a 
large woman, and held a small hero in abhorrence, confirmed 
his decision. 

The fact is, I had attempted to give point to language 
which had no point, and nature to scenes which had no nature. 
They said I did not fill out my characters; and they were 
right. ‘The characters had all been prepared for a different 
sort of man. Our tragedy hero was a round, robustious 
fellow, with an amazing voice ; who stamped and slapped his 
breast until his wig shook again; and who roared and bel- 
lowed out his bombast until every phrase swelled upon the 
ear like the sound of a kettle-drum. I might as well have 
attempted to fill out his clothes as his characters. When we 
had a dialogue together, I was nothing before him, with my 
slender voice and discriminating manner. I might as well 
have attempted to parry a cudgel with a small-sword. If he 


found me in any way gaining ground upon him, he would take 


192 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


refuge in his mighty voice, and throw his tones like peals of 
thunder at me, until they were drowned in the still louder 
thunders of applause from the audience. 

To tell the truth, I suspect that I was not shown fair play, 
and that there was management at the bottom; for without 
vanity I think I was a better actor than he. As I had not 
embarked in the vagabond line through ambition, I did not 
repine at lack of preferment; but I was grieved to find that 
a vagrant life was not without its cares and anxieties; and 
that jealousies, intrigues, and mad ambition, were to be found 
even among vagabonds. 

Indeed, as I became more familiar with my situation, and 
the delusions of fancy gradually faded away, I began to find 
that my associates were not the happy careless creatures | 
had at first imagined them. They were jealous of each other’s 
talents ; they quarrelled about parts, the same as the actors 
on the grand theatres; they quarrelled about dresses; and 
there was one robe of yellow silk, trimmed with red, and a 
head-dress of three rumpled ostrich-feathers, which were con- 
tinually setting the ladies of the company by the ears. Even 
those who had attained the highest honors were not more 
happy than the rest; for Mr. Flimsey himself, our first tra- 
gedian, and apparently a jovial good-humored fellow, confessed 
to me one day, in the fulness of his heart, that he was a mis- 
erable man. He had a brother-in-law, a relative by marriage, 
though not by blood, who was manager of a theatre in a small 
country town. And this same brother (“a little more than 
kin but less than kind”) looked down upon him, and treated 
him with contumely, because, forsooth, he was but a strolling 
player. I tried to console him with the thoughts of the vast 


BUCKTHORNE. 193 


applause he daily received, but it was all in vain. He de- 
clared that it gave him no delight, and that he should never 
be a happy man, until the name of Flimsey rivalled the name 
of Crimp. 

How little do those before the scenes know of what passes 
behind ! how little can they judge, from the countenances of 
actors, of what is passing in their hearts! I have known two 
lovers quarrel like cats behind the scenes, who were, the 
moment after, to fly into each other’s embraces. And I have 
dreaded, when our Belvidera was to take her farewell kiss of 
her Jaffier, lest she should bite a piece out of his cheek. Our 
tragedian was a rough joker off the stage; our prime clown 
the most peevish mortal living. The latter used to go about 
snapping and snarling, with a broad laugh painted on his 
countenance; and I can assure you, that whatever may be 
said of the gravity of a monkey, or the melancholy of a gibed 
cat, there is no more melancholy creature in existence than a 
mountebank off duty. 

The only thing in which all parties agreed, was to backbite 
the manager, and cabal against his regulations. This, how- 
ever, I have since discovered to be a common trait of human 
nature, and to take place in all communities. It would seem 
to be the main business of man to repine at government. In 
all situations of life, into which I have looked, I have found 
mankind divided into two grand parties: those who ride, and 
those who are ridden. The great struggle of life seems to be 
which shall keep in the saddle. This, it appears to me, is the 
fundamental principle of politics, whether in great or little 
life. Tlowever, I do not mean to moralize—but one cannot 


always sink the philosopher. 
9 


194 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


Well, then, to return to myself, it was determined, as | 
said, that I was not fit for tragedy, and, unluckily, as my 
study was bad, having a very poor memory, I was _ pro- 
nounced unfit for comedy also; besides, the line of young 
gentlemen was already engrossed by an actor with whom I 
could not pretend to enter into competition, he having filled 
it for almost half a century. I came down again, therefore, 
to pantomime. In consequence, however, of the good offices 
of the manager’s lady, who had taken a liking to me, I was 
promoted from the part of the satyr to that of the lover; and 
with my face patched and painted, a huge cravat of paper, a 
steeple-crowned hat, and dangling long-skirted sky-blue coat, 
was metamorphosed into the lover of Columbine. My part 
did not call for much of the tender and sentimental. I had 
merely to pursue the fugitive fair one; to have a door now 
and then slammed in my face; to run my head occasionally 
against a post; to tumble and roll about with Pantaloon and 
the Clown; and to endure the hearty thwacks of Harlequin’s 
wooden sword. 

As ill luck would have it, my poetical temperament be- 
gan to ferment within me, and to work out new troubles. 
The inflammatory air of a great metropolis, added to the rural 
scenes in which the fairs were held, such as Greenwich Park, 
Epping Forest, and the lovely valley of the West End, had 
a powerful effect upon me. While in Greenwich Park, I was 
witness to the old holiday games of running down hill, and 
kissing in the ring; and then the firmament of blooming faces 
and blue eyes that would be turned towards me, as I was 
playing antics on the stage; all these set my young blood and 
my poetical vein in full flow. In short, I played the charac 


BUCKTHORNE. 195 


ter to the life, and became desperately enamored of Co. 
lumbine. She was a trim, well-made, tempting girl, with a 
roguish dimpling face, and fine chestnut hair clustering all 
about it. The moment I got fairly smitten, there was an end 
to all playing. Iwas such a creature of fancy and feeling, 
that I could not put on a pretended, when I was powerfully 
affected by a real emotion. I could not sport with a fiction 
that came so near to the fact. JI became too natural in my 
acting to succeed. And then, what a situation for a lover! 
I was a mere stripling, and she played with my passion; for 
girls soon grow more adroit and knowing in these matters 
than your awkward youngsters. What agonies had I to 
suffer! Every time that she danced in front of the booth, 
and made such liberal displays of her charms, I was in tor- 
ment. ‘To complete my misery, I had a real rival in Harle- 
quin, an active, vigorous, knowing varlet, of six-and-twenty. 
What had a raw, inexperienced youngster like me to hope 
from such a competition ? 

I had still, however, some advantages in my favor. In 
spite of my change of life, I retained that indescribable some- 
thing which always distinguishes the gentleman; that some- 
thing which dwells in a man’s air and deportment, and not in 
his clothes ; and which is as difficult for a gentleman to put 
off, as for a vulgar fellow to put on. The company generally 
felt it, and used to call me Little Gentleman Jack. The girl 
felt it too, and, in spite of her predilection for my powerful 
rival, she liked to flirt with me. This only aggravated my 
troubles, by increasing my passion, and awakening the jeal- 
ousy of her party-colored lover. 


Alas! think what I suffered at being obliged to keep up 


196 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


an ineffectual chase after my Columbine through whole pan- 
tomimes; to see her carried off in the vigorous arms of the 
happy Harlequin ; and to be obliged, instead of snatching her 
from him, to tumble sprawling with Pantaloon and the Clown, 
and bear the infernal and degrading thwacks of my rival’s 
weapon of lath, which, may heaven confound him ! (excuse my 
passion,) the villain laid on with a malicious good-will: nay, 
I could absolutely hear him chuckle and laugh beneath his ac- 
cursed mask—lI beg pardon for growing a little warm in my 
narrative—I wish to be cool, but these recollections will some- 
times agitate me. I have heard and read of many desperate 
and deplorable situations of lovers, but none, I think, in 
which true love was ever exposed to so severe and peculiar 
a trial. 

This could not last long; flesh and blood, at least such 
flesh and blood as mine, could not bear it. I had repeated 
heart-burnings and quarrels with my rival, in which he treated 
me with the mortifying forbearance of a man towards a child. 
Had he quarrelled outright with me, I could have stomached 
it, at least I should have known what part to take; but to be 
humored and treated as a child in the presence of my mis- 
tress, when I felt all the bantam spirit of a little man swelling 
within me—Gods ! it was insufferable ! 

At length, we were exhibiting one day at West End fair, 
which was at that time a very fashionable resort, and often 
beleaguered with gay equipages from town. Among the 
spectators that filled the first row of our little canvas theatre 
one afternoon, when I had to figure in a pantomime, were a 
number of young ladies from a boarding-school, with their 


governess. Guess my confusion, when, in the midst of my 


BUCKTHORNE. 197 


antics, I beheld among the number my quondam flame ; her 
whom I had berhymed at school, her for whose charms I had 
smarted so severely, the cruel Sacharissa! What was worse, 
I fancied she recollected me, and was repeating the story of 
my humiliating flagellation, for I saw her whispering to her 
companions and her governess. I lost all consciousness of the 
part I was acting, and of the place where I was. I felt shrunk 
to nothing, and could have crept into a rat-hole—unluckily, 
none was open to receive me. Before I could recover from 
my confusion, I was tumbled over by Pantaloon and the 
Clown, and I felt the sword of Harlequin making vigorous 
assaults in a manner most degrading to my dignity. 

Heaven and earth! was I again to suffer martyrdom in 
this ignominious manner, in the knowledge, and even before 
the very eyes of this most beautiful, but most disdainful of 
fair ones? All my long-smothered wrath broke out at once; 
the dormant feelings of the gentleman arose within me. 
Stung to the quick by intolerable mortification, I sprang on 
my feet in an instant; leaped upon Harlequin like a young 
tiger ; tore off his mask ; buffeted him in the face; and soon 
shed more blood on the stage, than had been spilt upon it 
during a whole tragic campaign of battles and murders. 

As soon as Harlequin recovered from his surprise, he re- 
turned my assault with interest. I was nothing in his hands, 
I was game, to be sure, for I was a gentleman; but he had 
the clownish advantage of bone and muscle. I felt as if I 
could have fought even unto the death; and I was likely to 
do so, for he was, according to the boxing phrase, “ putting 


my head into chancery,” when the gentle Columbine flew to 


198 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


my assistance. God bless the women! they are always on 
the side of the weak and the oppressed ! 

The battle now became general; the dramatis persone 
ranged on either side. The manager interposed in vain; in 
vain were his spangled black bonnet and towering white 
feathers seen whisking about, and nodding, and bobbing in the 
thickest of the fight. Warriors, ladies, priests, satyrs, kings, 
queens, gods, and goddesses, all joined pell-mell in the affray ; 
never, since the conflict under the walls of Troy, had there 
been such a chance-medley warfare of combatants, human and 
divine. The audience applauded, the ladies shrieked, and fled 
from the theatre; and a scene of discord ensued that baffles 
all description. 

Nothing but the interference of the peace-officers restored 
some degree of order. The havoc, however, among dresses 
and decorations, put an end to all further acting for that day. 
The battle over, the next thing was to inquire why it was be- 
gun; a common question among politicians after a bloody 
and unprofitable war, and one not always easy to be answer- 
ed. It was soon traced to me, and my unaccountable trans- 
port of passion, which they could only attribute to my having 
run a muck. The manager was judge and jury, and plaintiff 
into the bargain ; and in such cases justice is always speedily 
administered. He came out of the fight as sublime a wreck 
as the Santissima Trinidada. His gallant plumes, which once 
towered aloft, were drooping about his ears; his robe of state 
hung in ribbons from his back, and but ill concealed the rav- 
ages he had suffered in the rear. He had received kicks and 
cuffs from all sides during the tumult; for every one took the 


opportunity of slyly gratifying some lurking grudge on his 


BUCKTHORNE. 199 


fat carcass. He was a discreet man, and did not choose to 
declare war with all his company, so he swore all those kicks 
and cuffs had been given by me, and I let him enjoy the 
opinion. Some wounds he bore, however, which wore the in- 
contestable traces of a woman’s warfare: his sleek rosy cheek 
was scored by trickling furrows, which were ascribed to the 
nails of my intrepid and devoted Columbine. ‘The ire of the 
monarch was not to be appeased; he had suffered in his per- 
son, and he had suffered in his purse; his dignity, too, had 
been insulted, and that went for something; for dignity is 
always more irascible, the more petty the potentate. He 
wreaked his wrath upon the beginners of the affray, and Co- 
lumbine and myself were discharged, at once, from the com- 
pany. 

Figure me, then, to yourself, a stripling of little more 
than sixteen, a gentleman by birth, a vagabond by trade, 
turned adrift upon the world, making the best of my way 
through the crowd of West End fair; my mountebank dress 
fluttering in rags about me; the weeping Columbine hanging 
upon my arm, in splendid but tattered finery ; the tears cours- 
ing one by one down hier face, carrying off the red paint in 
torrents, and literally “ preying upon her damask cheek.” 

The crowd made way for us as we passed, and hooted in 
our rear. I felt the ridicule of my situation, but had too 
much gallantry to desert this fair one, who had sacrificed 
every thing for me. Having wandered through the fair, we 
emerged, like another Adam and Eve, into unknown regions, 
and “had the world before us where to choose.” Never was 
a more disconsolate pair seen in the soft valley of West End. 


The luckless Columbine cast many a lingering look at the fair, 


200 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


which seemed to put on a more than usual splendor : its tents, 
and booths, and party-colored groups, all brightening in the 
sunshine, and gleaming among the trees ; and its gay flags and 
streamers fluttering in the light summer airs. With a heavy 
sigh she would lean on my arm and proceed. I had no hope 
nor consolation to give her; but she had linked herself to my 
fortunes, and she was too much of a woman to desert me. 
Pensive and silent, then, we traversed the beautiful fields 
which lie behind Hampstead, and wandered on, until the 
fiddle, and the hautboy, and the shout, and the laugh, were 
swallowed up in the deep sound of the big bass-drum, and 
even that died away into a distant rumble. We passed along 
the pleasant, sequestered walk of Nightingale-lane. For a 
pair of lovers, what scene could be more propitious ?—But 
such a pair of lovers! Not a nightingale sang to soothe us: 
the very gipsies, who were encamped there during the fair, 
made no offer to tell the fortunes of such an ill-omened couple, 
whose fortunes, I suppose, they thought too legibly written 
to need an interpreter ; and the gipsy children crawled into 
their cabins, and peeped out fearfully at us as we went by. 
For a moment I paused, and was almost tempted to turn 
gipsy, but the poetical feeling, for the present, was fully satis- 
fied, and I passed on. ‘Thus we travelled and travelled, like a 
prince and princess in a nursery tale, until we had traversed 
a part of Hampstead Heath, and arrived in the vicinity of 
Jack Straw’s Castle. Here, wearied and dispirited, we seated 
ourselves on the margin of the hill, hard by the very mile- 
stone where Whittington of yore heard the Bow-bells ring 
out the presage of his future greatness. Alas! no bell rung 


an invitation to us, as we looked disconsolately upon the dis- 


BUCKTHORNE. 201 


tant city. Old London seemed to wrap itself unsociably in its 
mantle of brown smoke, and to offer no encouragement to 
such a couple of tatterdemalions. 

For once, at least, the usual course of the pantomime was 
reversed, Harlequin was jilted, and the lover had carried off 
Columbine in good earnest. But what was I to do with her ? 
I could not take her in my hand, return to my father, throw 
myself on my knees, and crave his forgiveness and blessing, 
according to dramatic usage. The very dogs would have 
chased such a draggled-tailed beauty from the grounds. 

In the midst of my doleful dumps, some one tapped me 
on the shoulder, and, looking up, I saw a couple of rough 
sturdy fellows standing behind me. Not knowing what to 
expect, I jumped on my legs, and was preparing again to 
make battle, but was tripped up and secured in a twinkling. 

“ Come, come, young master,” said one of the fellows in a 
gruff but good-humored tone, “don’t let’s have any of your 
tantrums ; one would have thought you had had swing enough 
for this bout. Come; it’s high time to leave off harlequinad- 
ing, and go home to your father.” 

In fact, I had fallen into the hands of remorseless men. 
The cruel Sacharissa had proclaimed who I was, and that a re- 
ward had been offered throughout the country for any tidings 
of me; and they had seen a description of me which had 
been inserted in the public papers. Those harpies, therefore, 
for the mere sake of filthy lucre, were resolved to deliver me 
over into the hands of my father, and the clutches of my peda- 
gogue. 

In vain I swore I would not leave my faithful and afflicted 


Columbine. In vain I tore myself from their grasp, and flew 
9% 


202 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


to her, and vowed to protect her; and wiped the tears from 
her cheek, and with them a whole blush that might have vied 
with the carnation for brilliancy. My persecutors were in- 
flexible ; they even seemed to exult in our distress; and to 
enjoy this theatrical display of dirt, and finery, and tribula- 
tion. I was carried off in despair, leaving my Columbine des- 
titute in the wide world; but many a look of agony did I 
cast back at her as she stood gazing piteously after me from 
the brink of Hampstead Hill; so forlorn, so fine, so ragged, 
so bedraggled, yet so beautiful. 

Thus ended my first peep into the world. I returned 
home, rich in good-for-nothing experience, and dreading the 
reward [ was to receive for my improvement. My reception, 
however, was quite different from what I had expected. My 
father had a spice of the devil in him, and did not seem to 
like me the worse for my freak, which he termed “ sowing 
my wild oats.” He happened to have some of his sporting 
friends to dine the very day of my return; they made me 
tell some of my adventures, and laughed heartily at them. 

One old fellow, with an outrageously red nose, took to me 
hugely. I heard him whisper to my father that I was a lad 
of mettle, and might make something clever; to which my 
father replied, that I had good points, but was an ill-broken 
whelp, and required a great deal of the whip. Perhaps this 
very conversation raised me a little in his esteem, for I found 
the red-nosed old gentleman was a veteran fox-hunter of the 
neighborhood, for whose opinion my father had vast deference. 
Indeed, I believe he would have pardoned any thing in me 
more readily than poetry, which he called a cursed, sneaking, 


puling, housekeeping employment, the bane of all fine man- 


BUCKTHORNE. 203 


hood. He swore it was unworthy of a youngster of my ex- 
pectations, who was one day to have so great an estate, and 
would be able to keep horses and hounds, and hire poets to 
write songs for him into the bargain. 

I had now satisfied, for a time, my roving propensity. I 
had exhausted the poetical feeling. I had been heartily buffet- 
ed out of my love for theatrical display. I felt humiliated by 
my exposure, and willing to hide my head anywhere for a 
season, so that I might be out of the way of the ridicule of 
the world; for I found folks not altogether so indulgent 
abroad as they were at my father’s table. I could not stay 
at home; the house was intolerably doleful now that my 
mother was no longer there to cherish me. Every thing 
around spoke mournfully of her. The little flower-garden in 
which she delighted, was all in disorder and overrun with 
weeds. J attempted for a day or two to arrange it, but my 
heart grew heavier and heavier as | labored. Every little 
broken-down flower, that I had seen her rear so tenderly, 
seemed to plead in mute eloquence to my feelings. There 
was a favorite honeysuckle which I had seen her often training 
with assiduity, and had heard her say it would be the pride of 
her garden. I found it grovelling along the ground, tangled 
and wild, and twining round every worthless weed ; and it 
struck me as an emblem of myself, a mere scatterling, run- 
ning to waste and uselessness. I could work no longer in the 
garden. 

My father sent me to pay a visit to my uncle, by way of 
keeping the old gentleman in mind of me. I was received, as 
usual, without any expression of discontent, which we always 
considered equivalent to a hearty welcome. Whether he had 


204 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


ever heard of my strolling freak or not, I could not discover, 
he and his man were both so taciturn. I spent a day or two 
roaming about the dreary mansion and neglected park, and 
felt at one time, I believe, a touch of poetry, for I was tempt- 
ed to drown myself in a fish pond; I rebuked the evil spirit, 
however, and it left me. I found the same red-headed boy 
running wild about the park, but I felt in no humor to hunt 
him at present. On the contrary, I tried to coax him to me, 
and to make friends with him ; but the young savage was un- 
tamable. 

When I returned from my uncle’s, I remained at home for 
some time, for my father was disposed, he said, to make a 
man of me. He took me out hunting with him, and I became 
a great favorite of the red-nosed squire, because I rode at 
every thing, never refused the boldest leap, and was always 
sure to be in at the death. I used often, however, to offend 
my father at hunting-dinners, by taking the wrong side in 
politics. My father was amazingly ignorant, so ignorant, in 
fact, as not to know that he knew nothing. He was stanch, 
however, to church and king, and full of old-fashioned preju- 
dices. Now I had picked up a little knowledge in politics 
and religion during my rambles with the strollers, and found 
myself capable of setting him right as to many of his anti- 
quated notions. I felt it my duty to duso; we were apt, there- 
fore, to differ occasionally in the political discussions which 
sometimes arose at those hunting-dinners. 

I was at that age when a man knows least, and is most 
vain of his knowledge, and when he is extremely tenacious in 
defending his opinion upon subjects about which he knows 
nothing: My father was a hard man for any one to argue 


BUCKTHORNE. 205 


with, for he never knew when he was refuted. I sometimes 
posed him a little, but then he had one argument that always 
settled the question; he would threaten to knock me down. 
I believe he at last grew tired of me, because I both outtalked 
and outrode him. The red-nosed squire, too, got out of con- 
ceit with me, because in the heat of the chase, I rode over him 
one day as he and his horse lay sprawling in the dirt: so | 
found myself getting into disgrace with all the world, and 
would have got heartily out of humor with myself, had I not 
been kept in tolerable self-conceit by the parson’s three 
daughters. 

They were the same who had admired my poetry on a 
former occasion, when it had brought me into disgrace at 
school ; and [ had ever since retained an exalted idea of their 
judgment. Indeed, they were young ladies not merely of 
taste but of science. Their education had been superintended 
by their mother, who was a_ bluestocking. They knew 
enough of botany to tell the technical names of all the flowers 
in the garden, and all their secret concerns into the bargain. 
They’ knew music, too, not mere common-place music, but 
Rossini and Mozart, and they sang Moore’s Irish Melodies to 
perfection. They had pretty little work-tables, covered with 
all kinds of objects of taste ; specimens of lava, and painted 
eggs, and work-boxes, painted and varnished by themselves. 
They excelled in knotting and netting, and painted in water- 
colors; and made feather fans, and fire-screens, and worked 
in silks and worsteds; and talked French and Italian, and 
knew Shakspeare by heart. They even knew something of 
geology and mineralogy ; and went about the neighborhood 


g* 


206 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


knocking stones to pieces, to the great admiration and per. 
plexity of the country folk. 

1 am a little too minute, perhaps, in detailing their accom- 
plishments, but I wish to let you see that these were not com- 
monplace young ladies, but had pretensions quite above the 
ordinary run. It was some consolation to me, therefore, to 
find favor in such eyes. Indeed, they had always marked 
me out for a genius, and considered my late vagrant freak as 
fresh proof of the fact. They observed that Shakspeare him- 
self had been a mere pickle in his youth; that he had stolen 
a deer, as every one knew, and kept loose company, and con- 
sorted with actors: so I comforted myself marvellously with 
the idea of having so decided a Shaksperian trait in my char- 
acter. 

The youngest of the three, however, was my grand conso- 
lation. She was a pale, sentimental girl, with long “‘ hyacin- 
thine” ringlets hanging about her face. She wrote poetry 
herself, and we kept up a poetical correspondence. She had 
a taste for the drama, too, and I taught her how to act several 
of the scenes in Romeo and Juliet. I used to rehearse the 
garden scene under her lattice, which looked out from among 
woodbine and honeysuckles into the church-yard. 1 began to 
think her amazingly pretty as well as clever, and I believe I 
should have finished by falling in love with her, had not her 
father discovered our theatrical studies. He was a studious, 
abstracted man, generally too much absorbed in his learned 
and religious labors to notice the little foibles of his daugh- 
ters, and perhaps blinded by a father’s fondness ; but he unex- 
pectedly put his head out of his study-window one day in the 
midst of a scene, and put a stop to our rehearsals. THe had a 


’ BUCKTHORNE. ° 207 


vast deal of that prosaic good sense which I forever found a 
stumbling-block in my poetical path. My rambling freak had 
not struck the good man as poetically as it had his daughters. 
He drew his comparison from a different manual. He looked 
upon me as a prodigal son, and doubted whether I should ever 
arrive at the happy catastrophe of the fatted calf. 

I fancy some intimation was given to my father of this 
new breaking out of my poetical temperament, for he sudden- 
ly intimated that it was high time I should prepare for the 
university. I dreaded a return to the school whence 1 had 
eloped: the ridicule of my fellow-scholars, and the glance 
from the squire’s pew, would have been worse than death to 
me. I was fortunately spared the humiliation. My father 
sent me to board with a country clergyman, who had three or 
four boys under his care. I went to him joyfully, for I had 
often heard my mother mention him with esteem. In fact he 
had been an admirer of hers in his younger days, though too 
humble in fortune and modest in pretensions to aspire to her 
hand; but he had ever retained a tender regard for her. He 
was a good man; a worthy specimen of that valuable body 
of our country clergy who silently and unostentatiously do a 
vast deal of good; who are, as it were, woven into the whole 
system of rural life, and operate upon it with the steady yet 
unobtrusive influence of temperate piety and learned good 
sense. He lived in a small village not far from Warwick, 
one of those little communities where the scanty flock is, in 
a manner, folded into the bosom of the pastor. The vener- 
able church, in its grass-grown cemetery, was one of those 
rural temples scattered about our country as if to sanctify the 
land. 


4 


208 ; TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


I have the worthy pastor before my mind’s eye at this 
moment, with his mild benevolent countenance, rendered still 
more venerable by his silver hairs. 1 have him before me, 
as I saw him on my arrival, seated in the embowered porch 
of his small parsonage, with a flower-garden before it, and his 
pupils gathered round him like his children. I shall never 
forget his reception of me, for I believe he thought of my 
poor mother at the time, and his heart yearned towards her 
child. His eye glistened when he received me at the door, 
and he took me into his arms as the adopted child of his affec- 
tions. Never had I been so fortunately placed. He was one 
of those excellent members of our church, who help out their 
narrow salaries by instructing a few gentlemen’s sons. I am 
convinced those little seminaries are among the best nurseries 
of talent and virtue in the land. Both heart and mind are 
cultivated and improved. The preceptor is the companion 
and the friend of his pupils. His sacred character gives him 
dignity in their eyes, and his solemn functions produce that 
elevation of mind and sobriety of conduct necessary to those 
who are to teach youth to think and act worthily. 

I speak from my own random observation and experience ; 
but I think I speak correctly. At any rate, I can trace much 
of what is good in my own heterogeneous compound to the 
short time I was under the instruction of that good man. He 
entered into the cares and occupations and amusements of his 
pupils ; and won his way into our confidence, and studied our 
hearts and minds more intently than we did our books. 

He soon sounded the depth of my character. I had be- 
come, as I have alrcady hinted, a little liberal in my notions, 
and apt to philosophize on both politics and religion ; having 


BUCKTHORNE. 209 


seen something of men and things, and leernt, from my fellow- 
philosophers, the strollers, to despise all vulgar prejudices. 
He did not attempt to cast down my vainglory, nor to ques- 
tion my right view of things; he merely instilled into my 
mind a little information on these topics; though in a quiet 
‘unobtrusive way, that never ruffled a feather of my self-con- 
ceit. I was astonished to find what a change a little knowl- 
edge makes in one’s mode of viewing matters; and how dif- 
ferent a subject is when one thinks, or when one only talks 
about it. I conceived a vast deference for my teacher, and 
was ambitious of his good opinion. In my zeal to make a 
favorable impression, I presented him with a whole ream of 
my poetry. He read it attentively, smiled, and pressed my 
hand when he returned it to me, but said nothing. The next 
day he set me at mathematics. 

Somehow or other the process of teaching seemed robbed 
by him of all its austerity. I was not conscious that he 

_ thwarted an inclination or opposed a wish; but I felt that, for 
the time, my inclinations were entirely changed. I became 
fond of study, and zealous to improve myself. I made toler- 
able advances in studies which I had before considered as un- 
attainable, and I wondered at my own proficiency I thought, 
too, I astonished my preceptor ; for I often caught his eyes 
fixed upon me with a peculiar expression. I suspect, sintve, 
that he was pensively tracing in my countenance the early 
lineaments of my mother. 

Education was not apportioned by him into tasks, and en- 
joined as a labor, to be abandoned with joy the moment the 
hour of study was expired. We had, it is true, our allotted 
hours of occupation, to give us habits of method, and of the 


210 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


distribution of time; but they were made pleasant to us, and 
our feelings were enlisted in the cause. When they were 
over, education still went on. It pervaded all our relaxa- 
tions and amusements. There was a steady march of im- 
provement. Much of his instruction was given during pleas- 
ant rambles, or when seated on the margin of the Avon; and 
information received in that way, often makes a deeper im- 
pression than when acquired by poring over books. I have 
many of the pure and eloquent precepts that flowed from his 
lips associated in my mind with lovely scenes in nature, which 
make the recollection of them indescribably delightful. 

I do not pretend to say that any miracle was effected with 
me. After all said and done, I was but a weak disciple. My 
poetical temperament still wrought within me and wrestled 
hard with wisdom, and, I fear, maintained the mastery. I 
found mathematics an intolerable task in fine weather. I 
would be prone to forget my problems, to watch the birds 
hopping about the windows, or the bees humming about the | 
honeysuckles ; and whenever I could steal away, I would wan- 
der about the grassy borders of the Avon, and excuse this 
truant propensity to myself with the idea that I was treading 
classic ground, over which Shakspeare had wandered. What 
luxurious idleness have I indulged, as I lay under the trees 
and watched the silver waves rippling through the arches of 
the broken bridge, and laving the rocky bases of old War- 
wick Castle; and how often have I thought of sweet Shak- 
speare, and in my boyish enthusiasm have kissed the waves 
which had washed his native village. , 

My good preceptor would often accompany me in these 
desultory rambles. He sought to get hold of this vagrant 


BUCKTHORNE. ~ 211 


mood of mind and turn it to some account. He endeavored 
to teach me to mingle thought with mere sensation; to moral- 
ize on the scenes around ; and to inake the beauties of nature 
administer to the understanding of the heart. He endeavored 
to direct my imagination to high and noble objects, and to fill 
it with lofty images. In a word, he did all he could to make 
the best of a poetical temperament, and to counteract the mis- 
chief which had been done to me by my great expectations. 

Had I been earlier put under the care of the good pastor, 
or remained with him a longer time, I really believe he would 
have made something of me. He had already brought a great 
deal of what had been flogged into me into tolerable order, 
and had weeded out much of the unprofitable wisdom which 
had sprung up in my vagabondizing. I already began to find 
that with all my genius a little study would be no disadvan- 
tage to me; and, in spite of my vagrant freaks, I began to 
doubt my being a second Shakspeare. 

Just as I was making these precious discoveries, the good 
parson died. It was a melancholy day throughout the neigh- 
borhood. He had his little flock of scholars, his children, as 
he used to call us, gathered round him in his dying moments ; 
and he gave us the parting advice of a father, now that he had 
to leave us, and we were to be separated from each other, and 
scattered about in the world. He took me by the hand, and 
talked with me earnestly and affectionately, and called to my 
mind my mother, and used her name to enforce his dying ex- 
hortations, for I rather think he considered me the rnost err- 
ing and heedless of his flock. He held my hand in his, long 
after he had done speaking, and kept his eye fixed on me ten- 


derly and almost piteously: his lips moved as if he weré 


913 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


silently praying for me; and he died away, still holding me 
by the hand. 

There was not a dry eye in the church when the funeral 
service was read from the pulpit from which he had so often 
preached. When the body was committed to the earth, our 
little band gathered round it, and watched the coffin as it was 
lowered into the grave. The parishioners looked at us with 
sympathy ; for we were mourners not merely in dress but in 
heart. We lingered about the grave, and clung to one another 
for a time, weeping and speechless, and then parted, like a 
band of brothers, parting from the paternal hearth, never to 
assemble there again. 

How had the gentle spirit of that good man sweetened our 
natures, and linked our young hearts together by the kindest 
ties! I have always had a throb of pleasure at meeting with 
an old schoolmate, even though one of my truant associates ; 
but whenever, in the course of my life, I have encountered one 
of that little flock with which I was folded on the banks of the 
Avon, it has been with a gush of affection, and a glow of vir- 
tue, that for the moment have made me a better man. 

I was now sent to Oxford, and was wonderfully impressed 
on first entering it as a student. Learning here puts on all 
its majesty. It is lodged in palaces; it is sanctified by the 
sacred ceremonies of religion; it has a pomp and circumstance 
which powerfully affect the imagination. Such, at least, it 
had in my eyes, thoughtless as | was. My previous studies 
with the worthy pastor had prepared me to regard it with 
deference and awe. He had been educated here, and always 
spoke of the University with filial fondness and classic venera- 


tion. When I beheld the clustering spires and pinnacles of 


BUCKTHORNE. » 213 


this most august of cities rising from the plain, [ hailed them 
in my enthusiasm as the points of a diadem, which the nation 
had placed upon the brows of science. 

For a time old Oxford was full of enjoyment for me. 
There was a charm about its monastic buildings; its great 
Gothic quadrangles ; its solemn halls, and shadowy cloisters. 
I delighted, in the evenings, to get in places surrounded by 
the colleges, where all modern buildings were screened from 
the sight ; and to see the professors and students sweeping | 
along in the dusk in their antiquated caps and gowns. I 
seemed for a time to be transported among the people and 
edifices of the old times. I was a frequent attendant, also, of 
the evening service in the New College Hall; to hear the fine 
organ, and the choir swelling an anthem in that solemn build- 
ing, where painting, music, and architecture, are in such ad- 
mirable unison. 

A favorite haunt, too, was the beautiful walk bordered by 
lofty elms along the river, behind the gray walls of Magdalen 
College, which goes by the name of Addison’s Walk, from be- 
ing his favorite resort when an Oxford student. I became 
also a lounger in the Bodleian library, and a great dipper into 
books, though I cannot say that I studied them; in fact, being 
no longer under direction or control, | was gradually relapsing 
into mere indulgence of the fancy. Still this would have been 
pleasant and harmless enough, and I might have awakened 
from mere literary dreaming to something better. — The 
chances were in my favor, for the riotous times of the Univer- 
sity were past. The days of hard drinking were at an end. 
The old feuds of “Town and Gown,” like the civil wars of the 
White and Red Rose, had died away ; and student and citizen 


214 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


slept in peace and whole skins, without risk of being sum- 
moned in the night to bloody brawl. It had become the 
fashion to study at the University, and the odds were always 
in favor of my following the fashion. Unluckily, however, I 
fell in company with a special knot of young fellows, of lively 
parts and ready wit, who had lived occasionally upon town, 
and become initiated into the Fancy. They voted study to 
be the toil of dull minds, by which they slowly crept up the 
hill, while genius arrived at it at a bound. I felt ashamed to 
play the owl among such gay birds; so I threw by my 
books, and became a man of spirit. 

As my father made me a tolerable allowance, notwithstand- 
ing the narrowness of his income, having an eye always to 
my great expectations, I was enabled to appear to advantage 
among my companions. I cultivated all kinds of sport and 
exercises. I was one of the most expert oarsmen that rowed 
on the Isis. I boxed, fenced, angled, shot, and hunted, and 
my rooms in college were always decorated with whips of all 
kinds, spurs, fowling-pieces, fishing-rods, foils, and boxing- 
gloves. <A pair of leather breeches would seem to be throw- 
ing one leg out of the halftopen drawers, and empty bottles 
lumbered the bottom of every closet. 

My father came to see me at college when I was in the 
height of my career. He asked me how I came on with my 
studies, and what kind of hunting there was in the neighbor- 
hood. He examined my various sporting apparatus with a 
curious eye; wanted to know if any of the professors were 
fox hunters, and whether they were generally good shots, for 
he suspected their studying so much must be hurtful to the 
sight. We had a day’s shooting together: I delighted him 


BUCKTHORNE. 915 


with my skill, and astonished him by my learned disquisitions 
on horse-flesh, and on Manton’s guns; so, upon the whole, he 
departed highly satisfied with my improvement at college. 

I do not know how it is, but I cannot be idle long without 
getting in love. I had not been a very long time a man of 
spirit, therefore, before I became deeply enamored of a shop- 
keeper’s daughter in the High-street, who, in fact, was the ad- 
miration of many of the students. I wrote several sonnets in 
praise of her, and spent half of my pocket-money at the shop, 
in buying articles which I did not want, that I might have an 
opportunity of speaking to her. Her father, a severe-looking 
old gentleman, with bright silver buckles, and a crisp-curled 
wig, kept a strict guard on her, as the fathers generally do 
upon their daughters in Oxford, and well they may. I tried 
to get into his good graces, and to be sociable with him, but 
all in vain. I said several good things in his shop, but he 
never laughed: he had no relish for wit and humor. He was 
one of those dry old gentlemen who keep youngsters at bay. 
He had already brought up two or three daughters, and was 
experienced in the ways of students. He was as knowing and 
wary as a gray old badger that has often been hunted. To 
see him on Sunday, so stiff and starched in his demeanor, so 
precise in his dress, with his daughter under his arm, was 
enough to deter all graceless youngsters from approaching. 

I managed, however, in spite of his vigilance, to have 
several conversations with the daughter, as I cheapened 
articles in the shop. I made terrible long bargains, and ex- 
amined the articles over and over before I purchased. In the 
mean time, I would convey a sonnet or an acrostic under cover 


of a piece of cambxic, or slipped into a pair of stockings; I 


216 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


would whisper soft nonsense into her ear as I haggled about 
the price; and would squeeze her hand tenderly as I received 
my half-pence of change in a bit of whity-brown paper. Let 
this serve as a hint to all haberdashers who have pretty 
daughters for shop-girls, and young students for customers. 
I do not know whether my words and looks were very 
eloquent, but my poetry was irresistible; for, to tell the 
truth, the girl had some literary taste, and was seldom with- 
out a book from the circulating library. 

By the divine power of poetry, therefore, which is so 
potent with the lovely sex, did I subdue the heart of this fair 
little haberdasher. We carried on a sentimental correspond- 
ence for a time across the counter, and I supplied her with 
rhyme by the stockingfull. At length I prevailed on her to 
grant an assignation. But how was this to be effected? Her 
father kept her always under his eye; she never walked out 
alone ; and the house was locked up the moment that the 
shop was shut. All these difficulties served but to give zest 
to the adventure. I proposed that the assignation should be 
in her own chamber, into which I would climb at night. The 
plan was irresistible-—A cruel father, a secret lover, and a 
clandestine meeting! All the little girl’s studies from the 
circulating library seemed about to be realized. 

But what had I in view in making this assignation? In- 
deed, I know not. I had no evil intentions, nor can I say that 
I had any good ones. I liked the girl, and wanted to have an 
opportunity of seeing more of her; and the assignation was 
made, as I have done many things else, heedlessly and with- 
out forethought. I asked myself a few questions of the kind, 


after all my arrangements were made, but the answers were 


BUCKTHORNE. YAW. 


very unsatisfactory. “Am I to ruin this poor thoughtless 
girl?” said 1 to myself. “No!” was the prompt and indig- 
nant answer. “Am I to run away with her?”—“ whither, 
and to what purpose ?”—“ Well, then, am I to marry her ?” 
—‘ Poh! a man of my expectations marry a shopkeeper’s 
daughter?” ‘ What then am I to do with her?” “ Hum— 
why—let me get into the chamber first, and then consider” 
—and so the self-examination ended. 

Well, sir, “come what come might,” I stole under cover of 
the darkness to the dwelling of my dulcinea. All was quiet. 
At the concerted signal her window was gently opened. It 
was just above the projecting bow-window of her father’s 
shop, which assisted me in mounting. The house was low, 
and I was enabled to scale the fortress with tolerable ease. 
I clambered with a beating heart ; I reached the casement; I 
hoisted my body half into the chamber; and was welcomed, 
not by the embraces of my expecting fair one, but by the 
grasp of the crabbed-looking old father in the crisp-curled wig. 

I extricated myself from his clutches, and endeavored to 
make my retreat; but I was confounded by his cries of 
thieves! and robbers! I was bothered too by his Sunday 
cane, which was amazingly busy about my head as I descend- 
ed, and against which my hat was but a poor protection. 
Never before had I an idea of the activity of an old man’s 
arm, and the hardness of the knob of an ivory-headed cane. 
In my hurry and confusion I missed my footing, and fell 
sprawling on the pavement. I was immediately surrounded 
by myrmidons, who, I doubt not, were on the watch for me. 
Indeed, I was in no situation to escape, for I had sprained my 
ancle in the fall, and could not stand. I was seized as a house- 


10 


218 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


breaker ; and to exonerate myself of a greater crime, I had to 
accuse myself of a less. I made known who I was, and why 
I came there. Alas! the varlets knew it already, and were 
only amusing themselves at my expense. My perfidious 
muse had been playing me one of her slippery tricks. The 
old curmudgeon of a father had found my sonnets and acros- 
tics hid away in holes and corners of his shop; he had no 
taste for poetry like his daughter, and had instituted a rigor- 
ous though silent observation. He had moused upon our let- 
ters, detected our plans, and prepared every thing for my re- 
ception. Thus was I ever doomed to be led into scrapes by 
the muse. Let no man henceforth carry on a secret amour in 
poetry ! 

The old man’s ire was in some measure appeased by the 
pommeling of my head and the anguish of my sprain; so he 
did not put me to death on the spot. He was even humane 
enough to furnish a shutter, on which I was carried back to 
college like a wounded warrior. The porter was roused to 
admit me. The college gate was thrown open for my entry. 
The affair was blazed about the next morning, and became the 
joke of the college from the buttery to the hall. 

I had leisure to repent during several weeks’ confinement 
by my sprain, which I passed in translating Boethius’s Con- 
solations of Philosophy. I received a most tender and ill- 
spelled letter from my mistress, who had been sent to a rela- 
tion in Coventry. She protested her innocence of my misfor- 
tune, and vowed to be true to me “ till deth.” I took no 
notice of the letter, for I was cured for the present, both of 
love and poetry. Women, however, are more constant in 


their attachments than men, whatever philosophers may say 


BUCKTHORNE. 219 


to the contrary. I am assured that she actually remained 
faithful to her vow for several months; but she had to deal 
with a cruel father, whose heart was as hard as the knob of 
his cane. He was not to be touched by tears nor poetry, but 
absolutely compelled her to marry a reputable young trades- 
man, who made her a happy woman in spite of herself, and 
of all the rules of romance; and what is more, the mother of 
several children. They are at this very day a thriving couple, 
and keep a snug corner shop, just opposite the figure of Peep- 
ing Tom, at Coventry. 

I will not fatigue you by any more details of my studies 
at Oxford; though they were not always as severe as these, 
nor did I always pay as dear for my lessons. To be brief, 
then, I lived on in my usual miscellaneous manner, gradually 
getting knowledge of good and evil, until I had attained my 
twenty-first year. I had scarcely came of age when I heard 
of the sudden death of my father. ‘The shock was severe, for 
though he had never treated me with much kindness, still he 
was my father, and at his death, I felt alone in the world. 

I returned home, and found myself the solitary master of 
the paternal mansion. A. crowd of gloomy feelings came 
thronging upon me. It was a place that always sobered me, 
and brought me to reflection ; now especially ; it looked so 
deserted and melancholy. I entered the little breakfasting- 
room. There were my father’s whip and spurs, hanging by 
the fireplace; the Stud-Book, Sporting Magazine, and Racing 
Calendar, his only reading. His favorite spaniel lay on the 
hearth-rug. The poor animal, who had never before noticed 
me, now came fondling about me, licked my hand, then looked 
round the room, whined, wagged his tail slightly, and gazed 


920 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


wistfully in my face. I felt the full force of the appeal. 
“Poor Dash,” said I, “we are both alone in the world, with 
nobody to care for us, and will take care of one another.”— 
the dog never quitted me afterwards. 

I could not go into my mother’s room—my heart swelled 
when I passed within sight of the door. Her portrait hung in 
the parlor, just over the place where she used to sit. As I 
cast my eyes on it, I thought that it looked at me with ten- 
derness, and I burst into tears. I was a careless dog, it is 
true, hardened a little, perhaps, by living in public schools, 
and buffeting about among strangers, who cared nothing for 
me; but the recollection of a mother’s tenderness was over- 
coming. 

I was not of an age or a temperament to be long depressed. 
There was a reaction in my system, that always brought me 
up again after every pressure; and, indeed, my spirits were 
always most buoyant after a temporary prostration. I settled 
the concerns of the estate as soon as possible; realized my 
property, which was not very considerable, but which ap- 
peared a vast deal to me, having a poetical eye, that magnified 
every thing; and finding myself, at the end of a few months, 
free of all further business or restraint, I determined to go to 
London and enjoy myself. Why should I not ?—I was young, 
animated, joyous; had plenty of funds for present pleasures, 
and my uncle’s estate in the perspective. Let those mope at 
college, and pore over books, thought I, who have their way 
to make in the world; it would be ridiculous drudgery in a 
youth of my expectations. Away to London, therefore, I rat- 
tled in a tandem, determined to take the town gayly. I 
passed through several of the villages where I had played the 


BUCKTHORNE. yA | 


Jack Pudding a few years before; and I visited the scenes of 
many of my adventures and follies merely from that feeling of 
melancholy pleasure which we have in stepping again the 
footprints of foregone existence, even when they have passed 
among weeds and" briers. I made a circuit in the latter part 
of my journey, so as to take in West End and Hampstead, 
the scenes of my last dramatic exploit, and of the battle royal 
of the booth. As I drove along the ridge of Hampstead Hill, 
by Jack Straw’s Castle, I paused at the spot where Columbine 
and I had sat down so disconsolately in our ragged finery, and 
had looked dubiously on London. I almost expected to see 
her again, standing on the hill’s brink, “like Niobe, all tears ;” 
—mournful as Babylon in ruins! 

“ Poor Columbine !” said I, with a heavy sigh, “ thou wert 
faithful to the dis- 


tressed, and ready to sacrifice thyself in the cause of worthless 


a gallant, generous girl—a true woman ; 


man!” 

I tried to whistle off the recollection of her, for there was 
always something of self-reproach with it. I drove gayly 
along the road, enjoying the stare of hostlers and stable-boys, 
as [managed my horses knowingly down the steep street of 
Hampstead ; when, just at the skirts of the village, one of the 
traces of my leader came loose. [ pulled up, and as the 
animal was restive, and my servant a bungler, I called for 
assistance to the robustious master of a snug ale-house, who 
stood at his door with a tankard in his hand. He came readi- 
ly to assist me, followed by his wife, with her bosom half 
open, a child in her arms, and two more at her heels. I stared 
for a moment, as if doubting my eyes. I could not be mis- 


taken ; in the fat, beer-blown landlord of the ale-house, I re- 


2292 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


collected my old rival Harlequin, and in his slattern spouse, 
the once trim and dimpling Columbine. 

The change of my looks from youth to manhood, and the 
change in my circumstances, prevented them from recognizing 
me. ‘They could not suspect in the dashing young buck, fash- 
ionably dressed and driving his own equipage, the painted 
beaux, with old peaked hat, and long, flimsy, sky-blue coat. 
My heart yearned with kindness towards Columbine, and I 
was glad to see her establishment a thriving one. As soon as 
the harness was adjusted, I tossed a small purse of gold into 
her ample bosom; and then, pretending to give my horses a 
hearty cut of the whip, I made the lash curl with a whistling 
about the sleek sides of ancient Harlequin. The horses dashed 
off like lightning, and I was whirled out of sight before either 
of the parties could get over their surprise at my liberal dona- 
tions. I have always considered this as one of the greatest 
proofs of my poetical genius; it was distributing poetical jus- 
tice in perfection. 

I now entered London en cavalier, and became a blood 
upon town. I took fashionable lodgings, in the West End; 
employed the first tailor; frequented the regular lounges ; 
gambled a little ; lost my money good-humoredly, and gained 
a number of fashionable, good-for-nothing acquaintances. I 
gained some reputation also for a man of science, having be- 
come an expert boxer in the course of my studies at Oxford. 
I was distinguished, therefore, among the gentlemen of the 
Fancy ; became hand and glove with certain boxing noblemen, 
and was the admiration of the Fives Court. A gentleman’s 
science, however, is apt to get him into bad scrapes; he is 
too prone to play the knight-errant, and to pick up quarrels 


can. 


BUCKTHORNE. 993 


which less scientifical gentlemen would quietly avoid. I un- 
dertook one day to punish the insolence of a porter. He was 
a Hercules of a fellow, but then I was so secure in my science ! 
I gained the victory of course. The porter pocketed his 
humiliation, bound up his broken head, and went about his 
business as unconcernedly as though nothing had happened; 
while I went to bed with my victory, and did not dare to show 
my battered face for a fortnight: by which I discovered that 
a gentleman may have the worst of the battle even when vic- 
torious. 

J am naturally a philosopher, and no one can moralize bet- 
ter after a misfortune has taken place; so I lay on my bed 
and moralized on this sorry ambition, which levels the gen- 
tleman with the clown. I know it is the opinion of many 
sages, who have thought deeply on these matters, that the 
noble science of boxing keeps up the bull-dog courage of the 
nation; and far be it from me to decry the advantage of be- 
coming a nation of bull-dogs; but I now saw clearly that it 
was calculated to keep up the breed of English ruffians. 
“ What is the Fives Court,” said I to myself, as I turned un- 
comfortably in bed, “but a college of scoundrelism, where 
every bully-ruffan in the land may gain a fellowship? 
What is the slang language of the Fancy but a jargon by 
which fools and knaves commune and understand each other, 
and enjoy a kind of superiority over the uninitiated? What 
is a boxing-match but an arena, where the noble and the illus- 
trious are jostled into familiarity with the infamous and the 
vulgar? What, in fact, is the Fancy itself, but a chain of easy 
communication, extending from the peer down to the pick- 
pocket, through the medium of which a man of rank may find 


994 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


he has shaken hands, at three removes, with the murderer 
on the gibbet ?— 

“Enough!” ejaculated I, thoroughly convinced through 
the force of my philosophy, and the pain of my bruises—“ Pll 
have nothing more to do with the Fancy.” So when I had 
recovered from my victory, I turned my attention to softer 
themes, and became a devoted admirer of the ladies. Had I 
had more industry and ambition in my nature, I might have 
worked my way to the very height of fashion, as I saw many 
laborious gentlemen doing around me. But it is a toilsome, 
an anxious, and an unhappy life; there are few things so sleep- 
less and miserable as your cultivators of fashionable smiles. 
I was quite content with that kind of society which forms the 
frontiers of fashion, and may be easily taken possession of. 
I found it a light, easy, productive soil. I had but to go 
about and sow visiting cards, and I reaped a whole harvest of 
invitations. Indeed, my figure and address were by no means 
against me. It was whispered, too, among the young ladies, 
that I was prodigiously clever, and wrote poetry; and the 
old ladies had ascertained that I was a young gentleman of 
good family, handsome fortune, and “ great expectations.” 

I now was carried away by the hurry of gay life, so intoxi- 
cating to a young man, and which a man of poetical tempera- 
ment enjoys so highly on his first tasting of it; that rapid 
variety of sensations; that whirl of brilliant objects; that 
succession of pungent pleasures! I had no time for thought. 
I only felt. I never attempted to write poetry; my poetry 
seemed all to go off by transpiration. I lived poetry ; it was 
all a poetical dream tome. A mere sensualist knows nothing 
of the delights of a splendid metropolis. He lives in a round 


BUCKTHORNE. 225 


of animal gratifications and heartless habits. But to a young 
man of poetical feelings, it is an ideal world, a scene of en- 
chantment and delusion ; his imagination is in perpetual ex- 
citement, and gives a spiritual zest to every pleasure. 

A season of town life, however, somewhat sobered me of 
my intoxication ; or rather I was rendered more serious by 
one of my old complaints—I fell in love. It was with a very 
pretty, though a very haughty fair one, who had come to 
London under the care of an old maiden aunt to enjoy the 
pleasures of a winter in town, and to get married. There 
was not a doubt of her commanding a choice of lovers; for 
she had long been the belle of a little cathedral city, and one 
of the poets of the place had absolutely celebrated her beauty 
in a copy of Latin verses. The most extravagant anticipa- 
tions were formed by her friends of the sensation she would 
produce. It was feared by some that she might be precip- 
itate in her choice, and take up with some inferior title. The 
aunt was determined nothing should gain her under a lord. 

Alas! with all her charms, the young lady lacked the one 
thing needful—she had no money. So she waited in vain for 
duke, marquis, or earl, to throw himself at her feet. As the 
season waned, so did the lady’s expectations; when, just 
towards the close, I made my advances. 

I was most favorably received by both the young lady 
and her aunt. It is true, I had no title; but then such great 
expectations. A marked preference was immediately shown 
me over two rivals, the younger son of a needy baronet, and 
a captain of dragoons on half-pay. I did not absolutely take 
the field in form, for I was determined not to be precipitate ; 


but I drove my equipage frequently through the street in 
ide 


226 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


which she lived, and was always sure to see her at the 
window, generally with a book in her hand. I resumed my 
knack at rhyming, and sent her a long copy of verses; 
anonymously, to be sure, but she knew my hand-writing. 
Both aunt and niece, however, displayed the most delightful 
ignorance on the subject. The young lady showed them to 
me; wondered who they could be written by ; and declared 
there was nothing in this world she loved so much as poetry ; 
while the maiden aunt would put her pinching spectacles on 
her nose, and read them, with blunders in sense and sound, 
excruciating to an author’s ears; protesting there was noth- 
ing equal to them in the whole Elegant Extracts. 

The fashionable season closed without my adventuring to 
make a declaration, though I certainly had encouragement. I 
was not perfectly sure that I had effected a lodgment in the 
young lady’s heart; and, to tell the truth, the aunt overdid 
her part, and was a little too extravagant in her liking of me. 
I knew that maiden aunts were not to be captivated by the 
mere personal merits of their nieces’ admirers ; and I wanted 
to ascertain how much of all this favor I owed to driving an 
equipage, and having great expectations. oon 

I had received many hints how charming their native 
place was during the summer months ; what pleasant society 
they had; and what beautiful drives about the neighborhood. 
They had not, therefore, returned home long, before I made 
my appearance in dashing style, driving down the principal 
street. The very next morning I was seen at prayers, seated 
in the same pew with the reigning belle. Questions were 
whispered about the aisles, after service, “ Who is he?” and 
“ What is he?” And the replies were as usual, “ A young 


BUCKTHORNE. OOF 


gentleman of good family and fortune, and great expec- 
tations.” 

I was much struck with the peculiarities of this reverend 
little place. A cathedral, with its dependencies and regula- 
tions, presents a picture of other times, and of a different 
order of things. It is a rich relic of a more poetical age. 
There still linger about it the silence and solemnity of the 
cloister. In the present instance especially, where the cathe- 
dral was large, and the town small, its influence was the 
more apparent. The solemn pomp of the service, performed 
twice a day, with the grand intonations of the organ, and the 
voices of the choir swelling through the magnificent pile, dif- 
fused, as it were, a perpetual Sabbath over the place. This 
routine of solemn ceremony continually going on, independ- 
ent, as it were, of the world; this daily offering of melody 
and praise, ascending like incense from the altar, had a 
powerful effect upon my imagination. 

The aunt introduced me to her coterie, formed of families 
connected with the cathedral, and others of moderate fortune, 
but high respectability, who had nestled themselves under the 
wings of the cathedral to enjoy good society at moderate 
expense. It was a highly aristocratical little circle; scru- 
pulous in its intercourse with others, and jealously cautious 
about admitting any thing common or unclean. 

It seemed as if the courtesies of the old school had taken 
refuge here. There were continual interchanges of civilities, 
and of small presents of fruits and delicacies, and of com- 
plimentary crow-quill billets ; for in a quiet, well-bred com- 
munity like this, living entirely at ease, little duties, and 
little amusements, and little civilities, filled up the day. I 


228 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


have seen, in the midst of a warm day, a corpulent, powdered 
footman, issuing from the iron gateway of a stately mansion, 
and traversing the little place with an air of mighty import, 
bearing a small tart on a large silver salver. 

. Their evening amusements were sober and primitive. 
They assembled at a moderate hour; the young ladies 
played music, and the old ladies, whist ; and at an early hour 
they dispersed. There was no parade on these social oc- 
casions. Two or three old sedan chairs were in constant 
activity, though the greater part made their exit in clogs and 
pattens, with a footman or waiting-maid carrying a lantern in 
advance ; and long before midnight the clank of pattens and 
gleam of lanterns about the quiet little place, told that the 
evening party had dissolved. 

Still I did not feel myself altogether so much at my ease 
as I had anticipated considering the smallness of the place. I 
found it very different from other country places, and that it 
was not so easy to make a dash there. Sinner that I was! 
the very dignity and decorum of the little community was 
rebuking tome. I feared my past idleness and folly would 
rise in judgment against me. I stood in awe of the digni- 
taries of the cathedral, whom I saw mingling familiarly in 
society. I became nervous on this point. The creak of a 
prebendary’s shoes, sounding from one end of a quiet street 
to another, was appalling to me; and the sight of a shovel 
hat was sufficient at any time to check me in the midst of my 
boldest poetical soarings. 

And then the good aunt could not be quiet, but would 
cry me up for a genius, and extol my poetry to every one. 
So long as she confined this to the ladies it did well enough, 


BUCKTHORNE. 229 


because they were able to feel and appreciate poetry of the 
new romantic school. Nothing would content the good lady, 
however, but she must read my verses to a prebendary, who 
had long been the undoubted critic of the place. He was a 
thin, delicate old gentleman, of mild, polished manners, 
steeped to the lips in classic lore, and not easily put in a heat 
by any hot-blooded poetry of the day. He listened to my 
most fervid thoughts and fervid words without a glow; 
shook his head with a smile, and condemned them as not 
being according to Horace, as not being legitimate poetry. 

Several old ladies, who had heretofore been my admirers, 
shook their heads at hearing this; they could not think of 
praising any poetry that was not according to Horace; and 
as to any thing illegitimate, it was not to be countenanced in 
good society. Thanks to my stars, however, I had youth 
and novelty on my side: so the young ladies persisted in 
admiring my poetry in despite of Horace and illegitimacy. 

I consoled myself with the good opinion of the young 
ladies, whom I had always found to be the best judges of 
poetry. As to these old scholars, said I, they are apt to be 
chilled by being steeped in the cold fountains of the classics. 
Still I felt that I was losing ground, and that it was necessary 
to bring matters to a point. Just at this time there was a 
‘public ball, attended by the best society of the place, and by 
the gentry of the neighborhood: I took great pains with my 
toilet on the occasion, and I had never looked better. I had 
determined that night to make my grand assault on the heart 
of the young lady, to battle it with all my forces, and the 
next morning to demand a surrender in due form. 


I entered the ballroom amidst a buzz and flutter, which 
10* 


230 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


generally took place among the young ladies on my. appear- 
ance. I was in fine spirits; for, to tell the truth, I had 
exhilarated myself by a cheerful glass of wine on the occa- 
sion. I talked, and rattled, and said a thousand silly things, 
slap-dash, with all the confidence of a man sure of his au- 
ditors,—and every thing had its effect. 

In the midst of my triumph I observed a little knot 
gathering together in the upper part of the room. By 
degrees it increased. A tittering broke out here and there, 
and glances were cast round at me, and then there would be 
fresh tittering. Some of the young ladies would hurry away 
to distant parts of the room, and whisper to their friends. 
Wherever they went, there was still this tittering and glanc- 
ing at me. I did not know what to make of all this. I 
looked at myself from head to foot, and peeped at my back 
in a glass, to see if any thing was odd about my person; any 
awkward exposure, any whimsical tag hanging out :—no-— 
every thing was right—I was a perfect picture. I determined 
that it must be some choice saying of mine that was bandied 
about in this knot of merry beauties, and I determined to 
enjoy one of my good things in the rebound. I stepped 
gently, therefore, up the room, smiling at every one as I 
passed, who, I must say, all smiled and tittered in return. I 
approached the group, smirking and perking my chin, like a 
man who is full of pleasant feeling, and sure of being well 
received. The cluster of little belles opened as I advanced. 

Heavens and earth! whom should I perceive in the midst 
of them but my early and tormenting flame, the everlasting 
Sacharissa! She was grown, it is true, into the full beauty 


of womanhood; but showed, by the provoking merriment of 


i 


BUCKTHORNE. 2381 


her countenance, that she perfectly recollected me, and the 
ridiculous flagellations of which she had twice been the cause. 

I saw at once the exterminating cloud of ridicule bursting 
over me. My crest fell. The flame of love went suddenly 
out, or was extinguished by overwhelming shame. How I 
got down the room I know not: I fancied every one tittering 
atme. Just as I reached the door, I caught a glance of my 
mistress and her aunt listening to the whispers of Sacharissa, 
the old lady raising her hands and eyes, and the face of the 
_ young one lighted up, as I imagined, with scorn ineffable. I 
paused to see no more, but made two steps from the top of 
the stairs to the bottom. The next morning, before sunrise, 
I beat a retreat, and did not feel the blushes cool from my 
tingling cheeks, until I had lost sight of the old towers of the 
cathedral. 

I now returned to town thoughtful and crest-fallen. My 
money was nearly spent, for [ had lived freely and without 
calculation. The dream of love was over, and the reign of 
pleasure at an end. I determined to retrench while I had yet 
a trifle left: so selling my equipage and horses for half their 
value, I quietly put the money in my pocket, and turned 
pedestrian. I had not a doubt that, with my great expecta- 
tions, I could at any time raise funds, either on usury or by 
borrowing; but I was principled against both, and resolved 
by strict economy, to make my slender purse hold out until 
my uncle should give up the ghost, or rather the estate. I 
stayed at home therefore and read, and would have written, 
but I had already suffered too much from my poetical pro- 
ductions, which had generally involved me in some ridicu- 
lous scrape. I gradually acquired a rusty look, and had a 


232 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


straitened money-borrowing air, upon which the world began 
to shy me. I have never felt disposed to quarrel with the 
world for its conduct; it has always used me well. When I 
have been flush and gay, and disposed for society, it has 
caressed me; and when I| have been pinched and reduced, and 
wished to be alone, why, it has left me alone; and what 
more could a man desire? Take my word for it, this world 
is a more obliging world than people generally represent it. 

Well, sir, in the midst of my retrenchment, my retire- 
ment, and my studiousness, I received news that my uncle 
was dangerously ill. I hastened on the wings of an heir’s 
affections to receive his dying breath and his last testament. 
I found him attended by his faithful valet, old Iron John; by 
the woman who occasionally worked about the house, and by 
the foxy-headed boy, young Orson, whom I had occasionally 
hunted about the park. Iron John gasped a kind of asthmat- 
ical salutation as I entered the room, and received me with 
something almost like a smile of welcome: The woman sat 
blubbering at the foot of the bed; and the foxy-headed 
Orson, who had now grown up to be a lubberly lout, stood 
gazing in stupid vacancy at a distance. 

My uncle lay stretched upon his back. The chamber was 
without fire, or any of the comforts of a sick room. The 
cob-webs flaunted from the ceiling. The tester was covered 
with dust, and the curtains were tattered. From underneath 
the bed peeped out one end of his strong box. Against the 
wainscot were suspended rusty blunderbusses, horse-pistols, 
and a cut-and-thrust sword, with which he had fortified his 
room to defend his life and treasure. He had employed no 
physician during his illness ; and from the scanty relics lying 


BUCKTHORNE. 933 


on the table, seemed almost to have denied himself the assist- 
ance of a cook. 

When I entered the room, he was lying motionless; his 
eyes fixed and his mouth open: at the first look I thought 
him a corpse. The noise of my entrance made him turn his 
head. At the sight of me a ghastly smile came over his face, 
and his glazing eye gleamed with satisfaction. It was the 
only smile he had ever given me, and it went to my heart. 
“Poor old man!” thought I, “why should you force me to 
leave you thus desolate, when I see that my presence has the 
power to cheer you?” 

“ Nephew,” said he, after several efforts, and in a low 
gasping voice—“ I am glad you are come. I shall now die 
with satisfaction. Look,” said he, raising his withered 
hand, and pointing—*“ look in that box on the table: you will 
find that I have not forgotten you.” 

I pressed his hand to my heart, and the tears stood in my 
eyes. I sat down by his bedside, and watched him, but he 
never spoke again. My presence, however, gave him evi- 
dent satisfaction ; for every now and then, as he looked to me, 
a vague smile would come over his visage, and he would 
feebly point to the sealed box on the table. As the day wore 
away, his life appeared to wear away with it. Towards sun- 
set his head sank on the bed, and lay motionless, his eyes 
grew glazed, his mouth remained open, and thus he gradu- 
ally died. 

I could not but feel shocked at this absolute extinction of 
my kindred. I dropped a tear of real sorrow over this 
strange old man, who had thus reserved the smile of kindness 
to his death-bed; like an evening sun after a gloomy day, 


234 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


just shining out to set in darkness. Leaving the corpse in 
charge of the domestics, I retired for the night. 

It was a rough night. The winds seemed as if singing 
my uncle’s requiem about the mansion, and the bloodhounds 
howled without, as if they knew of the death of their old 
master. Iron John almost grudged me the tallow candle to 
burn in my apartment, and light up its dreariness, so accus- 
tomed had he been to starveling economy. I could not sleep. 
The recollection of my uncle’s dying scene, and the dreary 
sounds about the house affected my mind. These, however, 
were succeeded by plans for the future, and I lay awake the 
greater part of the night, indulging the poetical anticipation 
how soon I should make these old walls ring with cheerful 
life, and restore the hospitality of my mother’s ancestors. 

My uncle’s funeral was decent, but private. I knew that 
nobody respected his memory, and I was determined none 
should be summoned to sneer over his funeral, and make 
merry at his grave. He was buried in the church of the 
neighboring village, though it was not the burying-place of 
his race ; but he had expressly enjoined that he should not be 
buried with his family : he had quarrelled with most of them 
when living, and he carried his resentments even into the 
grave. 

I defrayed the expenses of his funeral out of my own 
purse, that I might have done with the undertakers at once, - 
and clear the ill-omened birds from the premises. I invited 
the parson of the parish, and the lawyer from the village, to 
attend at the house the next morning, and hear the reading of 
the will. I treated them to an excellent breakfast, a profu- 
sion that had not been seen at the house for many a year. 


BUCKTHORNE. 235 


As soon as the breakfast things were removed, I summoned 
Iron John, the woman, and the boy, for I was particular in 
having every one present and proceeding regularly. The box 
was placed on the table—all was silence—I broke the seal— 
raised the lid, and beheld—not the will—but my accursed 
poem of Doubting Castle and Giant Despair ! 

Could any mortal have conceived that this old withered 
man, so taciturn, and apparently so lost to feeling, could have 
treasured up for years the thoughtless pleasantry of a boy, to 
punish him with such cruel ingenuity ? I now could account 
for his dying smile, the only one he had ever given me. He 
had been a grave man all his life, it was strange that he 
should die in the enjoyment of a joke, and it was hard that 
that joke should be at my expense. 

The lawyer and the parson seemed at a loss to compre. 
hend the matter. “ Here must be some mistake,” said the 
lawyer; “ there is no will here.” 

“Oh!” said Iron John, creaking forth his rusty jaws, “if 
it is a will you are looking for, I believe I can find one.” 

He retired with the same singular smile with which he 
had greeted me on my arrival, and which I now apprehended 
boded me no good. In a little while he returned with a will 
perfect at all points, properly signed and sealed, and wit- 
nessed and worded with horrible correctness ; in which the 
deceased left large legacies to Iron John and his daughter, 
and the residue of his fortune to the foxy-headed boy, who, to 
my utter astonishment, was his son by this very woman; he 
having married her privately, and, as I verily believe, for no 
other purpose than to have an heir, and so balk my father 
and his issue of the inheritance. There was one little pro- 


236 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


viso, in which he mentioned, that, having discovered his 
nephew to have a pretty turn for poetry, he presumed he had 
no occasion for wealth; he recommended him, however, to 
the patronage of his heir, and requested that he might have a 
garret, rent-free, in Doubting Castle. 


{> J 
“i a ~ 


GRAVE REFLECTIONS OF A DISAPPOINTED 
MAN. 


\ R. BUCKTHORNE had paused at the death of his 

uncle, and the downfall of his great expectations, which 
formed, as he said, an epoch in his history ; and it was not 
until some little time afterwards, and in a very sober mood, 
that he resumed his party-colored narrative. 

After leaving the remains of my defunct uncle, said he, 
when the gate closed between me and what was once to have 
been mine, I felt thrust out naked into the world, and com- 
pletely abandoned to fortune. What was to become of me? 
I had been brought up to nothing but expectations, and they 
had all been disappointed. I had no relations to look to 
for counsel or assistance. The world seemed all to have 
died away from me. Wave after wave of relationship had 
ebbed off, and I was left a mere hulk upon the strand. J am 
not apt to be greatly cast down, but at this time I felt sadly 
disheartened. I could not realize my situation, nor form a 
conjecture how I was to get forward. I was now to endeavor 
to make money. The idea was new and strange to me. It 
was like being asked to discover the philosopher’s stone. I 


had never thought about money otherwise than to put my 


238 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


hand into my pocket and find it; or if there were none there, 
to wait until a new supply came from home. I had consid- 
ered life as a mere space of time to be filled up with enjoy- 
ments; but to have it portioned out into long hours and days 
of toil, merely that I might gain bread to give me strength to 
toil on—to labor but for the purpose of perpetuating a life of 
labor, was new and appalling to me. This may appear a 
very simple matter to some; but it will be understood by 
every unlucky wight in my predicament, who has had the 
misfortune of being born to great expectations. 

I passed several days in rambling about the scenes of my 
boyhood ; partly because I absolutely did not know what to 
do with myself, and partly because I did not know that I 
should ever see them again. I clung to them as one clings 
to a wreck, though he knows he must eventually cast himself 
loose and swim for his life. I sat down on a little hill within 
sight of my paternal home, but I did not venture to approach 
it, for I felt compunction at the thoughtlessness with which I 
had dissipated my patrimony ; yet was I to blame when I 
had the rich possessions of my curmudgeon of an uncle in 
expectation ? 

The new possessor of the place was making great altera- 
tions. ‘The house was almost rebuilt. The trees which stood 


about it were cut down: my mother’s flower-garden was 
? a 


thrown into a lawn—all was undergoing a change. I turned 
my back upon it with a sigh, and rambled to another part of 
the country. 

How thoughtful a little adversity makes one! As I 
came within sight of the schoolhouse where I had so often 


been flogged in the cause of wisdom, you would hardly have 


A DISAPPOINTED MAN. 2389 


reccgnized the truant boy, who, but a few years since, had 
eloped so heedlessly from its walls. I leaned over the paling 
of the play-ground, and watched the scholars at their games, 
and looked to see if there might not be some urchin among 
them like I was once, full of gay dreams about life and the 
world. The play-ground seemed smaller than when I used to 
sport about it. The house and park, too, of the neighboring 
squire, the father of the cruel Sacharissa, had shrunk in size 
aud diminished in magnificence. The distant hills no longer 
appeared so far off, and, alas! no longer awakened ideas of 
a fairy land beyond. 

As I was rambling pensively through a neighboring 
meadow, in which I had many a time gathered primroses, I 
met the very pedagogue who had been the tyrant and dread 
of my boyhood. I had sometimes vowed to myself, when 
suffering under his rod, that 1 would have my revenge if ever 
I met him when I had grown to bea man. The time had 
come; but I had no disposition to keep my vow. The few 
years which had matured me into a vigorous man had shrunk 
him into decrepitude. He appeared to have had a paralytic 
stroke. I looked at him, and wondered that this poor help- 
less mortal could have been an object of terror to me; that I 
should have watched with anxiety the glance of that failing 
eye, or dreaded the power of that trembling hand. He tot- 
tered feebly along the path, and had some difficulty in getting 
over astile. I ran and assisted him. He looked at me with 
surprise, but did not recognize me, and made a low bow of 
humility, and thanks. I had no disposition to make myself 
known, for I felt that I had nothing to boast of. The pains 
he had taken, and the pains he had inflicted, had been equally 


240 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


useless. His repeated predictions were fully verified, and 
I felt that little Jack Buckthorne, the idle boy, had grown 
to be a very good-for-nothing man. 

This is all very comfortless detail; but as I have told 
you of my follies, it is meet that I show you how for once I 
was schooled for them. The most thoughtless of mortals 
will some time or other have his day of gloom, when he will 
be compelled to reflect. 

I felt on this occasion as if I had a kind of penance to per- 
form, and I made a pilgrimage in expiation of my past levity. 
Having passed a night at Leamington, I set off by a private 
path, which leads up a hill through a grove and across quiet 
fields, till I came to the small village, or rather hamlet, of 
Lenington. I sought the village church. It is an old low 
edifice of gray stone, on the brow of a small hill, looking 
over fertile fields, towards where the proud towers of War- 
wick castle lift themselves against the distant horizon. 

A part of the churchyard is shaded by large trees. Under 
one of them my mother lay buried. You have no doubt 
thought me a light, heartless being. I thought myself so; 
but there are moments of adversity which let us into some 
feelings of our nature to which we might otherwise remain 
perpetual strangers. 

I sought my mother’s grave; the weeds were already 
matted over it, and the tombstone was half hid among nettles. 
I cleared them away, and they stung my hands; but I was 
heedless of the pain, for my heart ached too severely. I sat 
down on the grave, and read over and over again the epitaph 
on the stone. 


It was simple,—but it was true. I had written it myself. 


A DISAPPOINTED MAN. 241 


J had tried to write a poetical epitaph, but in vain; my feel- 
ings refused to utter themselves in rhyme. My heart had 
gradually been filling during my lonely wanderings ; it was 
now charged to the brim, and overflowed. I sank upon the 
grave, and buried my face in the tall grass, and wept like a 
child. Yes, I wept in manhood upon the grave, as I had in 
infancy upon the bosom of my mother. Alas! how little do 
we appreciate a mother’s tenderness while living! how heed- 
less are we in youth of all her anxieties and kindness! But 
wheu she is dead and gone; when the cares and coldness of 
the world come withering to our hearts ; when we find how 
hard it is to meet with true sympathy ; how few love us for 
ourselves ; how few will befriend us in our misfortunes ; then 
it is that we think of the mother we have lost. It is true I 
had always loved my mother, even in my most heedless days ; 
but I felt how inconsiderate and ineffectual had been my love. 
My heart melted as I retraced the days of infancy, when I was 
led by a mother’s hand, and rocked to sleep in a mother’s 
arms, and was without care or sorrow. “QO my mother!” 
exclaimed I, burying my face again in the grass of the grave ; 
“Oh that I were once more by your side; sleeping never to 
wake again on the cares and troubles of this world.” 

I am not naturally of a morbid temperament, and the vio- 
lence of my emotion gradually exhausted itself. It was a 
hearty, honest, natural discharge of grief which had been 
slowly accumulating, and gave me wonderful relief. I rose 
from the grave as if I had been offering up a sacrifice, and I 
felt as if that sacrifice had been accepted. 

I sat down again on the grass, and plucked, one by one, 


the weeds from her grave: the tears trickled more slowly 
11 


249 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


down my cheeks, and ceased to be bitter. It was a comfort 
to think, that she had died before sorrow and poverty came 
upon her child and all his great expectations were blasted. 

I leaned my cheek upon my hand, and looked upon the 
landscape. Its quiet beauty soothed me. The whistle of a 
peasant from an adjoining field came cheerily to my ear. I 
seemed to respire hope and comfort with the free air that 
whispered through the leaves, and played lightly with my 
hair, and dried the tears upon my cheek. A lark, rising 
from the field before me, and leaving as it were a stream of 
song behind him as he rose, lifted my fancy with him. He 
hovered in the air just above the place where the towers of 
Warwick castle marked the horizon, and seemed as if flutter- 
ing with delight at his own melody. “Surely,” thought J, 
“if there was such a thing as transmigration of souls, this 
might be taken for some poet let loose from earth, but still 
revelling in song, and carolling about fair fields and lordly 
towers.” 

At this moment the long-forgotten feeling of poetry rose 
within me. A thought sprang at once into my mind.—“I 
will become an author!” said]. “I have hitherto indulged 
in poetry as a pleasure, and it has brought me nothing but 
pain; let me try what it will do when I cultivate it with de- 
votion as a pursuit.” 

The resolution thus suddenly aroused within me heaved a 
load from off my heart. I felt a confidence in it from the 
very place where it was formed. It seemed as though my 
mother’s spirit whispered it to me from the grave. “I will 
henceforth,” said J, “ endeavor to be all that she fondly imag- 


ined me. I will endeavor to act as if she were witness of my 


A DISAPPOINTED MAN. 243 


actions ; I will endeavor to acquit myself in such a manner 
that, when I revisit her grave, there may at least be no com- 
punctious bitterness with my tears.” 

I bowed down and kissed the turf in solemn attestation of 
my vow. I plucked some primroses that were growing there, 
and laid them next my heart. I left the churchyard with my 
spirit once more lifted up, and set out a third time for London 


in the character of an author. 

Here my companion made a pause, and I waited in anxious 
suspense, hoping to have a whole volume of literary life un- 
folded to me. He seemed, however, to have sunk into a fit 
of pensive musing, and when, after some time, I gently roused 
him by a question or two as to his literary career, 

“ No,” said he smiling: “ over that part of my story I wish 
to leave a cloud. Let the mysteries of the craft rest sacred 
forme. Let those who have never ventured into the republic 
of letters still look upon it as a fairy land. Let them sup- 
pose the author the very being they picture him from his 
works—I am not the man to mar their illusion. Iam not 
the man to hint, while one is admiring the silken web of 
Persia, that it has been spun from the entrails of a miserable 
worm.” 

“ Well,” said I, “if you will tell me nothing of your lit- 
erary history, let me know at least if you have had any 
further intelligence from Doubting Castle.” 

“ Willingly,” replied he, “ though I have but little to com- 
municate.” 


THE BOOBY SQUIRE. 


LONG time elapsed, said Buckthorne, without my re- 

ceiving any accounts of my cousin and his estate. In- 
deed, I felt so much soreness on the subject, that I wished, if 
possible, to shut it from my thoughts. At length, chanee took 
me to that part of the country, and I could not refrain from 
making some inquiries. 

I learnt that my cousin had grown up ignorant, self-willed, 
and clownish. His ignorance and clownishness had prevented 
his mingling with the neighboring gentry: in spite of his 
great fortune, he had been unsuccessful in an attempt to gain 
the hand of the daughter of the parson, and had at length 
shrunk into the limits of such a society as a mere man of 
wealth can gather in a country neighborhood. 

He kept horses and hounds, and a roaring table, at which 
were collected the loose livers of the country round, and the 
shabby gentlemen of a village in the vicinity. When he 
could get no other company, he would smoke and drink with 
his own servants, who in turn fleeced and despised him. 
Still, with all his apparent prodigality, he had a leaven of the 
old man in him, which showed that he was his trueborn son. 


He lived far within his income, was vulgar in his expenses, 


THE BOOBY SQUIRE. 945 


and penurious in many points wherein a gentleman would be 
extravagant. His house-servants were obliged occasionally 
to work on his estate, and part of the pleasure-grounds were 
ploughed up and devoted to husbandry. 

His table, though plentiful, was coarse; his liquors were 
strong and bad; and more ale and whiskey were expended in 
his establishment than generous wine. He was loud and ar- 
rogant at his own table, and exacted a rich man’s homage 
from his vulgar and obsequious guests. 

As to Iron John, his old grandfather, he had grown impa- 
tient of the tight hand his own grandson kept over him, and 
quarrelled with him soon after he came to the estate. The 
old man ‘had retired to the neighboring village, where he lived 
on the legacy of his late master, in a small cottage, and was 
as seldom seen out of it as a rat out of his hole in daylight. 

The cub, like Calaban, seemed to have an instinctive at- 
tachment to his mother. She resided with him, but, from long 
habit, she acted more as a servant than as a mistress of the 
mansion; for she toiled in all the domestic drudgery, and 
was oftener in the kitchen than the parlor. Such was the in- 
formation which I collected of my rival cousin, who had so 
unexpectedly elbowed me out of my expectations. 

I now felt an irresistible hankering to pay a visit to this 
scene of my boyhood, and to get a peep at the odd kind of 
life that was passing within the mansion of my maternal an- 
cestors. [I determined to do so in disguise. My booby 
cousin had never seen enough of me to be very familiar with 
my countenance, and a few years make a great difference be- 
tween youth and manhood. I understood he was a breeder 


of cattle, and proud of his stock; I dressed myself therefore 


246 YALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


as a substantial farmer, and with the assistance of a red 
scratch that came low down on my forehead, made a com- 
plete change in my physiognomy. 

It was past three o’clock when I arrived at the gate of the 
park, and was admitted by an old woman who was washing 
in a dilapidated building, which had once been a porter’s 
lodge. I advanced up the remains of a noble avenue, many 
of the trees of which had been cut down and sold for timber. 
The grounds were in scarcely better keeping than during my 
uncle’s life-time. The grass was overgrown with weeds, and 
the trees wanted pruning and clearing of dead branches. 
Cattle were grazing about the lawns, and ducks and geese 
swimming in the fish-ponds. The road to the house bore 
very few traces of carriage-wheels, as my cousin received few 
visitors but such as came on foot or horseback, and never 
used a carriage himself. Once, indeed, as I was told, he had 
the old family carriage drawn out from among the dust and 
cobwebs of the coach-house, and furbished up, and driven, 
with his mother, to the village church, to take formal posses- 
sion of the family pew; but there was such hooting and 
laughing after them, as they passed through the village, and 
such giggling and bantering about the church-door, that the 
pageant had never made a reappearance. 

As I approached the house, a legion of whelps sallied out, 
barking at me, accompanied by the low howling, rather than 
barking, of two old worn out blood hounds, which I recog- 
nized for the ancient lifeguards of my uncle. The house had 
still a neglected random appearance, though much altered for 
the better since my last visit. Several of the windows were 
broken and patched up with boards, and others had been 


1 


THE BOOBY SQUIRE. 247 


bricked up to save taxes. I observed smoke, however, rising 
from the chimneys, a phenomenon rarely witnessed in the 
ancient establishment. On passing that part of the house 
where the dining-room was situated, I heard the sound of 
boisterous merriment, where three or four voices were talking 
at once, and oaths and laughter were horribly mingled. 

The uproar of the dogs had brought a servant to the door, 
a tall hard-fisted country clown, with a livery coat put over 
the under garments of a ploughman. I requested to see the 
master of the house, but was told that he was at dinner with 
some “ gemmen” of the neighborhood. I made known my 
business, and sent in to know if I might talk with the master 
about his cattle, for I felt a great desire to have a peep at him 
in his orgies. 

Word was returned that he was engaged with company, 
and could not attend to business, but that if I would step in 
and take a drink of something, I was heartily welcome. I 
accordingly entered the hall, where whips and hats of all 
kinds and shapes were lying on an oaken table; two or three 
clownish servants were lounging about; every thing had a 
look of confusion and carelessness. 

The apartments through which I passed had the same air 
of departed gentility and sluttish housekeeping. The once 
rich curtains were faded and dusty ; the furniture greased and 
tarnished. On entering the dining-room, I found a number 
of odd, vulgar-looking, rustic gentlemen, seated round a table, 
on which were bottles, decanters, tankards, pipes, and tobacco. 
Several dogs were lying about the room, or sitting and watch- 
ing their masters, and one was gnawing a bone under a side- 
table. The master of the feast sat at the head of the board. 


948 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


He was greatly altered. He had grown thickset and rather 
gummy, with a fiery foxy head of hair. There was a singular 
mixture of foolishness, arrogance, and conceit, in his counte- 
nance. He was dressed in a vulgarly fine style, with leather 
breeches, a red waistcoat, and green coat, and was evidently, 
like his guests, a little flushed with drinking. The whole 
company stared at me with a whimsical muzzy look, like 
men whose senses were a little obfuscated by beer rather 
than wine. 

My cousin, (God forgive me! the appellation sticks in 
my throat,) my cousin invited me with awkward civility, or, 
as he intended it, condescension, to sit to the table and drink. 
We talked, as usual, about the weather, the crops, polities, 
and hard times. My cousin was a loud politician, and 
evidently accustomed to talk without contradiction at his 
own table. He was amazingly loyal, and talked of standing 
by the throne to the last guinea, “as every gentleman of 
fortune should do.” ‘The village exciseman who was_ half 


“very true” to every thing he 


asleep, could just ejaculate 
said. The conversation turned upon cattle; he boasted of 
his breed, his mode of crossing it, and of the general manage- 
ment of his estate. This unluckily drew out a history of the 
place and of the family. He spoke of my late uncle with 
the greatest irreverence, which I could easily forgive. He 
mentioned my name, and my blood began to boil. He de- 
scribed my frequent visits to my uncle, when I was a lad, and 
I found the varlet, even, at that time, imp as he was, had 
known that he was to inherit the estate. He described the 
scene of my uncle’s death, and the opening of the will, with a 


degree of coarse humor that I had not expected from him; and, 


THE BOOBY SQUIRE. 249 


vexed as I was,I could not help joining in the laugh, for I have 
always relished a joke, even though made at my own expense. 
He went on to speak of my various pursuits, my strolling 
freak, and that somewhat nettled me; at length he talked of 
my parents. He ridiculed my father; I stomached even 
that, though with great difficulty. He mentioned my mother 
with a sneer, and in an instant he lay sprawling at my feet. | 

Here a tumult succeeded: the table was nearly over- 
turned; bottles, glasses, and tankards, rolled crashing and 
clattering about the floor. The company seized hold of both 
of us, to keep us from doing any further mischief. I 
struggled to get loose, for I was boiling with fury. My cousin 
defied me to strip and fight him on the lawn. I agreed, for I 
felt the strength of a giant in me, and I longed to pommel 
him soundly. 

Away then we were borne. A ring was formed. I had 
a second assigned me in true boxing style. My cousin, as he 
advanced to fight, said something about his generosity in 
showing me such fair play, when I had made such an unpro- 
voked -attack upon him at his own table. ‘“ Stop there,” 
cried I, in a rage. “ Unprovoked? know that I am John 
Buckthorne, and you have insulted the memory of my 
mother.” 

The lout was suddenly struck by what I said: he drew 
back, and thought for a moment. 

“ Nay, damn it,” said he, “ that’s too much—that’s clean 
another thing—I’ve a mother myself—and no one shall speak 
ill of her, bad as she is.” 

He paused again: nature seemed to have a rough 


struggle in his rude bosom. 
Lhe 


250 TALES OF A TRAVELLER, 


“ Damn it, cousin,” cried he, “I’m sorry for what I said. 
Thou’st served me right in knocking me down, and I like thee 
the better for it. Here’s my hand: come and live with me, 
and damn me but the best room in the house, and the best 
horse in the stable, shall be at thy service.” 

I declare to you I was strongly moved at this instance of 
nature breaking her way through such a lump of flesh. I 
forgave the fellow in a moment his two heinous crimes, of 
having been born in wedlock, and inheriting my estate. I 
shook the hand he offered me, to convince him that I bore 
him no ill-will ; and then making my way through the gaping 
crowd of toadeaters, bade adieu to my uncle’s domains for- 
ever.—This is the last I have seen or heard of my cousin, or 
of the domestic concerns of Doubting Castle, 


eee see © Ie PNG WA NCATGEE Rt. 


S I was walking one morning with Buckthorne near one 

of the principal theatres, he directed my attention to a 
group of those equivocal beings that may often be seen hover- 
ing about the stage-doors of theatres. They were marvel- 
lously ill-favored in their attire, their coats buttoned up to 
their chins; yet they wore their hats smartly on one side, 
and had a certain knowing, dirty-gentlemanlike air, which is 
common to the subalterns of the drama. Buckthorne knew 
them well by early experience. 

“These,” said he, “are the ghosts of departed kings and 
heroes ; fellows who sway sceptres and truncheons; com- 
mand kingdoms and armies; and after giving away realms 
and treasures over night, have scare a shilling to pay for a 
breakfast in the morning. Yet they have the true vagabond 
abhorrence of all useful and industrious employment; and 
they have their pleasures too; one of which is to lounge in 
this way in the sunshine, at the stage-door, during rehearsals, 
and make hackneyed theatrical jokes on all passers-by. 
Nothing is more traditional and legitimate than the stage. 
Old scenery, old clothes, old sentiments, old ranting, and old 


jokes, are handed down from generation to generation; and 


952 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


will probably continue to be so until time shall be no more. 
Every hanger-on of a theatre becomes a wag by inheritance, 
and flourishes about at tap-rooms and sixpenny clubs with 
the property jokes of the green-room.” 

While amusing ourselves with reconnoitering this group, 
we noticed one in particular who appeared to be the oracle. 
He was a weatherbeaten veteran, a little bronzed by time 
and beer, who had no doubt grown gray in the parts of 
robbers, cardinals, Roman senators, and walking noblemen. 

“There is something in the set of that hat, and the turn 
of that physiognomy, extremely familiar to me,” said Buck- 
thorne. He looked a little closer,—* I cannot be mistaken, 
that must be my old brother of the truncheon, Flimsey, the 
tragic hero of the Strolling Company.” 

It was he in fact. The poor fellow showed evident signs 
that times went hard with him, he was so finely and shabbily 
dressed. His coat was somewhat threadbare, and of the 
Lord Townly cut; single breasted, and scarcely capable of 
meeting in front of his body, which, from long intimacy, had 
acquired the symmetry and robustness of a beer barrel. He 
wore a pair of dingy-white stockinet pantaloons, which had 
much ado to reach his waistcoat, a great quantity of dirty 
cravat ; and a pair of old russet-colored tragedy boots. 

When his companions had dispersed, Buckthorne drew 
him aside, and made himself known to him. The tragic 
veteran could scarcely recognize him, or believe that he was 
really his quondam associate, “tittle Gentleman Jack.” 
Buckthorne invited him to a neighboring coffee-house to talk 
over old times; and in the course of a little while we were 


put in possession of his history in brief. 


THE STROLLING MANAGER. 253 


He had continued to act the heroes in the strolling com- 
pany for some time after Buckthorne had left it, or rather 
had been driven from it so abruptly. At length the manager 
died, and the troop was thrown into confusion. Every one 
aspired to the crown, every one was for taking the lead; and 
the manager’s widow, although a tragedy queen, and a brim- 
stone to boot, pronounced it utterly impossible for a woman 
to keep any control over such a set of tempestuous ras- 
callions. 

“Upon this hint, I spoke,” said Flimsey. I stepped for- 
ward, and offered my services in the most effectual way. 
They were accepted. In a week’s time I married the widow, 
and succeeded to the throne. “The funeral baked meats did 
coldly furnish forth the marriage table,’ as Hamlet says. 
But the ghost of my predecessor never haunted me; and I 
inherited crowns, sceptres, bowls, daggers, and all the stage 
trappings and trumpery, not omitting the widow, without 
the least molestation. 

I now led a flourishing life of it; for our company was 
pretty strong and attractive, and as my wife and I took the 
heavy parts of tragedy, it was a great saving to the treasury. 
We carried off the palm from all the rival shows at coun- 
try fairs; and I assure you we have even drawn full houses, 
and been applauded by the critics at Batlemy Fair itself, 
though we had Astley’s troop, the Irish giant, and “the death 
of Nelson” in wax work, to contend against. 

I soon began to experience, however, the cares of com- 
mand. I discovered that there were cabals breaking out in the 
company, headed by the clown, who you may recollect was a 


terribly peevish, fractious fellow, and always in ill-humor. I 
11 Bat 


954 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


had a great mind to turn him off at once, but I could not do 
without him, for there was not a droller scoundrel on the stage. 
Ilis very shape was comic, for he had but to turn his back 
upon the audience, and all the ladies were ready to die with 
laughing. He felt his importance, and took advantage of it. 
Ife would keep the audience in a continual roar, and then 
come behind the scenes, and fret and fume, and play the very 
devil. J excused a great deal in him, however, knowing that 
comic actors are a little prone to this infirmity of temper. 

I had another trouble of a nearer and dearer nature to 
struggle with, which was the affection of my wife. As ill- 
luck would have it, she took it into her head to be very fond 
of me, and became intolerably jealous. I could not keep a 
pretty girl in the company, and hardly dared embrace an 
ugly one, even when my part required it. I have known her 
reduce a fine lady to tatters, “to very rags,” as Hamlet 
says, in an instant, and destroy one of the very best dresses 
in the wardrobe, merely because she saw me kiss her at the 
side scenes ; though I give you my honor it was done merely 
by way of rehearsal. 

This was doubly annoying, because I have a natural liking 
to pretty faces, and wish to have them about me; and 
because they are indispensable to the success of a company 
at a fair, where one has to vie with so many rival theatres. 
But when once a jealous wife gets a freak in her head, 
there’s no use in talking of interest or any thing else. Egad, 
sir, | have more than once trembled when, during a fit of her 
tantrums, she was playing high tragedy, and flourishing her 
tin dagger on the stage, lest she should give way to her 


humor, and stab some fancied rival in good earnest. 


THE STROLLING MANAGER. 255 


I went on better, however, than could be expected, con- 
sidering the weakness of my flesh, and the violence of my 
rib. I had not a much worse time of it than old Jupiter, 
whose spouse was continually ferreting out some new in- 
trigue, and making the heavens almost too hot to hold him. 

At length, as luck would have it, we were performing at 
a country fair, when I understood the theatre of a neighboring 
town to be vacant. I had always been desirous to be enrolled 
in a settled company, and the height of my desire was to get 
on a par with a brother-in-law, who was manager of a 
regular theatre, and who had looked down upon me. Here 
was an opportunity not to be neglected. I concluded an 
agreement with the proprietors, and in a few days opened 
the theatre with great eclat. 

Behold me now at the summit of my ambition, “ the high 
top-gallant of my joy,” as Romeo says. No longer a chief- 
tain of a wandering tribe, but a monarch of a legitimate 
throne, and entitled to call even the great potentates of Co- 
vent Garden and Drury Lane cousins. You,no doubt, think 
my happiness complete. Alas, sir! I was one of the most 
uncomfortable dogs living. No one knows, who has not 
tried, the miseries of a manager ; but above all of a country 
manager. No one can conceive the contentions and quarrels 
within doors, the oppressions and vexations from without. 
I was pestered with the bloods and loungers of a country 
town, who infested my green-room, and played the mischief 
among my actresses. But there was no shaking them off. 
It would have been ruin to affront them ; for though trouble- 
some friends, they would have been dangerous enemies. 


Then there were the village critics and village amateurs, who 


256 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


were continually tormenting me with advice, and getting into 
a passion if I would not take it; especially the village doctor 
and the village attorney, who had both been to London oc- 
casionally, and knew what acting should be. 

I had also to manage as arrant a crew of scapegraces as 
ever were collected together within the walls of a theatre. 
Thad been obliged to combine my original troop with some 
of the former troop of the theatre, who were favorites of the 
public. Here was a mixture that produced perpetual fer- 
ment. They were all the time either fighting or frolicking 
with each other, and I scarcely know which mood was least 
troublesome. If they quarrelled, every thing went wrong ; 
and if they were friends, they were continually playing off 
some prank upon each other, or upon me; for I had un- 
happily acquired among them the character of an easy, good- 
natured fellow—the worst character that a manager can 
possess. 

Their waggery at times drove me almost crazy; for 
there is nothing so vexatious as the hackneyed tricks and 
hoaxes and pleasantries of a veteran band of theatrical vaga- 
bonds. I relished them well enough, it is true, while I was 
merely one of the company, but as a manager I found them 
detestable. They were incessantly bringing some disgrace 
upon the theatre by their tavern frolicks and their pranks 
about the country town. All my lectures about the impor- 
tance of keeping up the dignity of the profession and the re- 
spectability of the company were in vain. The villains could 
not sympathize with the delicate feelings of a man in station. 
They: even trifled with the seriousness of stage business. 1 


have had the whole piece interrupted, and a crowded audience 


THE STROLLING MANAGER. Q57 


of at least twenty-five pounds kept waiting, because the actors 
had hid away the breeches of Rosalind; and have known 
Hamlet to stalk solemnly on to deliver his soliloquy, with a 
dish-clout pinned to his skirts. Such are the baleful conse- 
quences of a manager’s getting a character for good-nature. 

I was intolerably annoyed, too, by the great actors who 

came down starring, as it is called, from London. Of all 
baneful influences, keep me from that of a London star. A 
first-rate actress going the rounds of the country theatres is as 
bad as a blazing comet whisking about the heavens, and 
shaking fire and plagues and discords from its tail. 
The moment one of these “ heavenly bodies ” appeared in 
my horizon, I was sure to be in hot water. My theatre was 
overrun by provincial dandies, copper-washed counterfeits of 
Bond-street loungers, who are always proud to be in the train 
of an actress from town, and anxious to be thought on ex- 
ceeding good terms with her. It was really a relief to me 
when some random young nobleman would come in pursuit 
of the bait, and awe all this small fry at a distance. I have 
always felt myself more at ease with a nobleman than with 
the dandy of a country town. 

And then the injuries I suffered in my personal dignity 
and my managerial authority from the visits of these great 
London actors! ‘Sblood, sir, I was no longer master of my- 
self on my throne. I was hectored and lectured in my own 
green-room, and made an absolute nincompoop on my own 
stage. There is no tyrant so absolute and capricious as a 
London star at a country theatre. I dreaded the sight of all 
of them, and yet if I did not engage them, I was sure of hay- 


ing the public clamorous against me. They drew full houses, 


258 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


and appeared to be making my fortune; but they swallowed 
up all the profits by their insatiable demands. They were 
absolute tape-worms to my little theatre; the more it took 
in the poorer it grew. They were sure to leave me with an 
exhausted public, empty benches, and a score or two of 
affronts to settle among the town’s folk, in consequence of 
misunderstandings about the taking of places. 

But the worst thing I had to undergo in my managerial 
career was patronage. Oh, sir! of all things deliver me from 
the patronage of the great people of a country town. It was my 
ruin. You must know that this town, though small, was filled 
with feuds, and parties, and great folks; being a busy little trad- 
ing and manufacturing town. The mischief was that their 
greatness was of a kind not to be settled by reference to the 
court calendar, or college of heraldry ; it was therefore the 
most quarrelsome kind of greatness in existence. You smile, 
sir, but let me tell you there are no feuds more furious than 
the frontier feuds which take place in these “ debatable 
lands” of gentility. The most violent dispute that I ever 
knew in high life was one which occurred at a country town, 
on a question of precedence between the ladies of a manufac- 
turer of pins and a manufacturer of needles. 

At the town where I was situated there were perpetual 
altercations of the kind. The head mamufacturer’s lady, for 
instance, was at daggers-drawings with the head shopkeeper’s, 
and both were too rich and had too many friends to be 
treated lightly. The doctor’s and lawyer’s ladies held 
their heads still higher; but they in turn were kept in 
check by the wife of a country banker, who kept her own 
carriage ; while a masculine widow of cracked character and 


THE STROLLING MANAGER. 259 


second-handed fashion, who lived in a large house and claimed 
to be in some way related to nobility, looked down upon them 
all. To be sure, her manners were not over elegant, nor her 
fortune over large; but then, sir, her blood—oh, her blood 
carried it all hollow; there was no withstanding a woman 
with such blood in her veins. 

After all, her claims to high connexion were questioned, 
and she had frequent battles for precedence at balls and 
assemblies with some of the sturdy dames of the neighbor- 
hood, who stood upon their wealth and their virtue ; but then 
she had two dashing daughters, who dressed as fine as 
dragoons, and had as high blood as their mother, and seconded 
in every thing; so they carried their point with high heads, 
and every body hated, abused, and stood in awe of the Fan- 
tadlins. 

Such was the state of the fashionable world in this self- 
important little town. Unluckily, I was not as well acquainted 
with its politics as I should have been. I had found myself 
a stranger and in great perplexities during my first season ; 
I determined, therefore, to put myself under the patronage of 
some powerful name, and thus to take the field with the pre- 
judices of the public in my favor. I cast around my thoughts 
for that purpose, and in an evil hour they fell upon Mrs, Fan- 
tadlin. No one seemed to me to have a more absolute sway 
in the world of fashion. I had always noticed that her party 
slammed the box-door the loudest at the theatre; and had 
the most beaus attending on them, and talked and laughed 
loudest during the performance ; and then the Miss Fantad- 
lins wore always more feathers and flowers than any other 


ladies ; and used quizzing-glasses incessantly. ‘The first even- 


260 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


ing of my theatre’s re-opening, therefore, was announced in 
staring capitals on the play-bills, as under the patronage of 
“The Honorable Mrs. Fantadlin.” 

Sir, the whole community flew to arms! the banker’s 
wife felt her dignity grievously insulted at not having the 
preference ; her husband being high bailiff and the richest 
man in the place. She immediately issued invitations for a 
large party, for the night of the performance, and asked many 
a lady to it whom she never had noticed before. Presume to 
patronize the theatre! insufferable! And then for me to 
dare to term her ‘The Honorable!’ What claim had she to 
the title forsooth! The fashionable world had long groaned 
under the tyranny of the Fantadlins, and were glad to make a 
common cause against this new instance of assumption. 
Those, too, who had never before been noticed by the 
banker’s lady were ready to enlist in any quarrel for the 
honor of her acquaintance. All minor feuds were forgotten. 
The doctor’s lady and the lawyer’s lady met together, and the 
manufacturer’s lady and the shopkeeper’s lady kissed each 
other; and all, headed by the banker’s lady, voted the 
theatre a bore, and determined to encourage nothing but 
the Indian Jugglers and Mr. Walker’s Eidouranion. 

Alas for poor Pillgarlick ! I knew little the mischief that 
was brewing against me. My box-book remained blank ; the 
evening arrived; but no audience. ‘The music struck up to 
a tolerable pit and gallery, but no fashionables! I peeped 
anxiously from behind the curtain, but the time passed away ; 
the play was retarded until pit and gallery became furious ; 
and I had to raise the curtain, and play my greatest part in 


tragedy to “a beggarly account of empty boxes.” 


THE STROLLING MANAGER. 261 


It is true the T’antadlins came late, as was their custom, 
and entered like a tempest, with a flutter of feathers and red 
shawls ; but they were evidently disconcerted at finding they 
had no one to admire and envy them, and were enraged at 
this glaring defection of their fashionable followers. All the 
beau-monde were engaged at the banker’s lady’s rout. They 
remained for some time in solitary and uncomfortable state ; 
and though they had the theatre almost to themselves, yet, 
for the first time, they talked in whispers. They left the 
house at the end of the first piece, and I never saw them after- 
wards. 

Such was the rock on which I split. I never got over the 
patronage of the Fantadlin family. My house was deserted ; 
my actors grew discontented because they were ill paid; my 
door became a hammering place for every bailiff in the coun- 
try ; and my wife became more and more shrewish and tor- 
menting the more I wanted comfort. 

I tried for a time the usual consolation of a harassed and 
henpecked man; I took to the bottle, and tried to tipple away 
my cares, but in vain. I don’t mean to decry the bottle; it 
is no doubt an excellent remedy in many cases, but it did not 
answer in mine. It cracked my voice, coppered my nose, 
but neither improved my wife nor my affairs. My establish- 
ment became a scene of confusion and peculation. I was 
considered a ruined man, and of course fair game for every 
one to pluck at, as every one plunders a sinking ship. Day 
after day some of the troop deserted, and, like deserting sol- 
diers, carried off their arms and accoutrements with them. 
In this manner my wardrobe took legs and walked away, my 


finery strolled all over the country, my swords and daggers 


2962 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


glittered in every barn, until, at last, my tailor made “ one 
fell swoop,” and carried off three dress-coats, half a dozen 
doublets, and nineteen pair of flesh-colored pantaloons. This 
was the “ be all and the end all” of my fortune. Ino longer 
hesitated what to do. Egad, thought I, since stealing is the 
order of the day, I'll steal too; so I secretly gathered to- 
gether the jewels of my wardrobe, packed up a hero’s dress in 
a handkerchief, slung it on the end of a tragedy sword, and 
quietly stole off at dead of night, “the bell then beating one,” 
leaving my queen and kingdom to the mercy of my rebellious 
subjects, and my merciless foes the bumbailiffs. 

Such, sir, was the “end of all my greatness.” I was 
heartily cured of all passion for governing, and returned once 
more into the ranks. I had for some time the usual run of 
an actor’s life. I played in various country theatres, at fairs, 
and in barns ; sometimes hard pushed, sometimes flush, until, 
on one occasion, I came within an ace of making my fortune, 
and becoming one of the wonders of the age. 

I was playing the part of Richard the Third in a country 
barn, and in my best style; for to tell the truth, I was a little 
in liquor, and the critics of the company always observed that 
I played with most effect when I had a glass too much. There 
was a thunder of applause when I came to that part where 
Richard cries for “a horse! a horse!” My cracked voice 
had always a wonderful effect here; it was like two voices 
run into one; you would have thought two men had been 
calling for a horse, or that Richard had called for two horses. 
And when I flung the taunt at Richmond, “ Richard is hoarse 
with calling thee to arms,’ I thought the barn would have 


come down about my ears with the raptures of the audience. 


_- 


THE STROLLING MANAGER. 263 


The very next morning a person waited upon me at my 
lodgings. I saw at once he was a gentleman by his dress ; 
for he had a large brooch in his bosom, thick rings on his 
fingers, and used a quizzing-glass. And a gentleman he 
proved to be; for I soon ascertained that he was a kept 
author, or kind of literary tailor to one of the great London 
theatres ; one who worked under the manager’s directions, and 
cut up and cut down plays, and patched and pieced, and new 
faced, and turned them inside out; in short, he was one of 
the readiest and greatest writers of the day. 

He was now on a foraging excursion in quest of something 
that might be got up for a prodigy. The theatre, it seems, 
was in desperate condition—nothing but a miracle could save 
it. He had seen me act Richard the night before, and had 
pitched upon me for that miracle. I had a remarkable blus- 
ter in my style and swagger in my gait. I certainly differed 
from all other heroes of the barn: so the thought struck the 
agent to bring me out as a theatrical wonder, as the restorer 
of natural and legitimate acting, as the only one who could 
understand and act Shakspeare rightly. 

When he opened his plan I shrunk from it with becoming 
modesty, for well as I thought of myself, | doubted my com- 
petency to such an undertaking. 

I hinted at my imperfect knowledge of Shakspeare, having 
played his characters only after mutilated copies, interlarded 
with a great deal of my own talk by way of helping memory 
or heightening the effect. 

“So much the better,” cried the gentleman with rings on 


his fingers! “so much the better. New readings, sir !—new 


264 YALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


readings! Don’t study a line—let us have Shakspeare after 
your own fashion.” 

“ But then my voice was cracked ; it could not fill a Lon- 
don theatre.” 

“So much the better! so much the better! The public is 
tired of intonation—the ore rotundo has had its day. No, sir, 
your cracked voice is the very thing—spit and splutter, and 
snap and snarl, and ‘ play the very dog’ about the stage, and 
you'll be the making of us.” 

“ But then,”—I could not help blushing to the end of my 
very nose as I said it, but I was determined to be candid ;— 
“but then,” added I, “ there is one awkward circumstance; I 
have an unlucky habit—my misfortunes, and the exposures 
to which one is subjected in country barns, have obliged me 
now and then to—to—take a drop of something comfortable 


—and so—and so as 


“ What! you drink ? cried the agent eagerly. 

I bowed my head in blushing acknowledgment. 

“ So much the better! so much the better! The irregu- 
larities of genius! A sober fellow is commonplace. The 
public like an actor that drinks. Give me your hand, sir. 
You’re the very man to make a dash with.” 

I still hung back with lingering diffidence, declaring my- 
self unworthy of such praise. 

“*Sblood, man,” cried he, “no praise at all. You don’t 
imagine J think you a wonder; I only want the public to 
think so. Nothing is so easy as to gull the public, if you 
only set up a prodigy. Common talent any body can meas- 
ure by common rule; but a prodigy sets all rule and meas- 


urement at defiance.’ 


THE STROLLING MANAGER. 265 


These words opened my eyes in an instant: we now came 
to a proper understanding, less flattering, it is true, to my 
vanity, but much more satisfactory to my judgment. 

It was agreed that I should make my appearance before a 
London audience, as a dramatic sun just bursting from behind 
the clouds: one that was to banish all the lesser lights and 
false fires of the stage. Every precaution was to be taken to 
possess the public mind at every avenue. The pit was to be 
packed with sturdy clappers; the newspapers secured by 
vehement puffers; every theatrical resort to be haunted by 
hireling talkers. In a word, every engine of theatrical hum- 
bug was to be put in action. Wherever I differed from 
former actors, it was to be maintained that I was right and 
they were wrong. IfI ranted, it was to be pure passion; if 
] were vulgar, it was to be pronounced a familiar touch of 
nature; if I made any queer blunder, it was to be a new 
reading. If my voice cracked, or I got out in my part, I was 
only to bounce, and grin, and snarl at the audience, and make 
any horrible grimace that came into my head, and my ad- 
mirers were to call it “a great point,” and to fall back and 
shout and yell with rapture. 

“In short,” said the gentleman with the quizzing-glass, 
“strike out boldly and bravely : no matter how or what you 
do, so that it be but odd and strange. If you do but escape 
pelting the first night, your fortune and the fortune of the 
theatre is made.” 

I set off for London, therefore, in company with the kept 
author, full of new plans and new hopes. Iwas to be the 
restorer of Shakspeare and Nature, and the legitimate drama ; 


my very swagger was to be heroic, and my cracked voice the 
12 


266 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


standard of elocution. Alas, sir, my usual luck attended me: 
before I arrived at the metropolis a rival wonder had ap- 
peared ; a woman who could dance the slack rope, and run 
up a cord from the stage to the gallery with fireworks all 
round her. She was seized on by the manager with avidity. 
She was the saving of the great national theatre for the 
season. Nothing was talked of but Madame Saqui’s fire- 
works and flesh-colored pantaloons ; and Nature, Shakspeare, 
the legitimate drama, and poor Pillgarlick, were completely 
left in the lurch. 

When Madame Saqui’s performance grew stale, other 
wonders succeeded : horses, and harlequinades, and mummery 
of all kinds; until another dramatic prodigy was brought 
forward to play the very gamie for which I had been intended. 
I called upon the kept author for an explanation, but he was 
deeply engaged in writing a melo-drama or a pantomime, and 
was extremely testy on being interrupted in his studies, 
However, as the theatre was in some measure pledged to 
provide for me, the manager acted, according to the usual 
phrase, “ like a man of honor,” and I received an appointment 
in the corps. It had been a turn of a die whether I should be 
Alexander the Great or Alexander the coppersmith—the lat- 
ter carried it. I could not be put at the head of the drama, so 
I was put at the tail of it. In other words, I was enrolled 
among the number of what are called useful men ; those who 
enact soldiers, senators, and Banquo’s shadowy line. I was 
perfectly satisfied with my lot; for I have always been a bit 
of a philosopher. If my situation was not splendid, it at least 
was secure; and in fact I have seen half a dozen prodigies ap- 


pear, dazzle, burst like bubbles and pass away, and yet here 


% 
THE STROLLING MANAGER. 267 


I am, snug, unenvied and unmolested, at the foot of the pro- 
fession. 

You may smile; but let me tell you, we “ useful men” 
are the only comfortable actors on the stage. We are safe 
from hisses, and below the hope of applause. We fear not 
the success of rivals, nor dread the critic’s pen. So long as 
we get the words of our parts, and they are not often many, 
it is all we care for. We have our own merriment, our own 
friends, and our own admirers—for every actor has his friends 
and admirers, from the highest to the lowest. The first-rate 
actor dines with the noble amateur, and entertains a fashion- 
able table with scraps and songs and theatrical slip-slop. 
The second-rate actors have their second-rate friends and ad- 
mirers, with whom they likewise spout tragedy and talk slip- 
slop—and so down even to us; who have our friends and 
admirers among spruce clerks and aspiring apprentices— 
who treat us to a dinner now and then, and enjoy at tenth 
hand the same scraps and songs and slip-slop that have been 
served up by our more fortunate brethren at the tables of the 
great. 

I now, for the first time in my theatrical life, experience 
what true pleasure is. I have known enough of notoriety to 
pity the poor devils who are called favorites of the public. 
I would rather be a kitten in the arms of a spoiled child, to 
be one moment patted and pampered and the next moment 
thumped over the head with the spoon. I smile to see our 
leading actors fretting themselves with envy and jealousy 
about a trumpery renown, questionable in its quality, and 
uncertain in its duration. I laugh, too, though of course in 


my sleeve, at the bustle and importance, and trouble and 


268 TALES OF A TRAVILLER. 


perplexities of our manager—who is harassing himself to 
death in the hopeless effort to please every body. 

I have found among my fellow subalterns two or three 
quondam managers, who like myself have wielded the scep- 
tres of country theatres, and we have many a sly joke to- 
gether at the expense of the manager and the public. Some- 
times, too, we meet, like deposed and exiled kings, talk over 
the events of our respective reigns, moralize over a tankard 
of ale, and laugh at the humbug of the great and little world ; 
which, I take it, is the essence of practical philosophy. 


Thus end the anecdotes of Buckthorne and his friends. _ It 
grieves me much that I could not procure from him further 
particulars of his history, and especially of that part of it 
which passed in town. He had evidently seen much of liter- 
ary life; and, as he had never risen to eminence in letters, 
and yet was free from the gall of disappointment, I had hoped 
to gain some candid intelligence concerning his contempo- 
raries. The testimony of such an honest chronicler would 
have been particularly valuable at the present time; when, 
owing to the extreme fecundity of the press, and the thousand 
anecdotes, criticisms, and biographical sketches that are daily 
poured forth concerning public characters, it is extremely diffi- 
cult to get at any truth concerning them. 

He was always, however, excessively reserved and fas- 
tidious on this point, at which I very much wondered, authors 
in general appearing to think each other fair game, and being 


ready to serve each other up for the amusement of the public. 


THE STROLLING MANAGER. 269 


A few mornings after hearing the history of the ex- 
manager, | was surprised by a visit from Buckthorne before 
I was out of bed. He was dressed for travelling. 

“Give me joy! give me joy!” said he, rubbing his hands 
with the utmost glee, “ my great expectations are realized !” 

I gazed at him with a look of wonder and inquiry. 

“ My booby cousin is dead!” cried he; “may he rest in 
peace! he nearly broke his neck in a fall from his horse in a 
fox-chase. By good luck, he lived long enough to make his 
will. He has made me his heir, partly out of an odd feeling 
of retributive justice, and partly because, as he says, none of 
his own family nor friends know how to enjoy such an estate. 
Pm off to the country to take possession. I’ve done with 
authorship. That for the critics!” said he, snapping his 
finger. “Come down to Doubting Castle, when I get settled, 
and, egad, ’'ll give you a rouse.” So saying, he shook me 
heartily by the hand, and bounded off in high spirits. 

A long time elapsed before | heard from him again. In- 
deed, it was but lately that I received a letter, written in the 
happiest of moods. He was getting the estate in fine order ; 
every thing went to his wishes; and what was more, he was 
married to Sacharissa, who it seems had always entertained 
an ardent though secret attachment for him, which he for- 
tunately discovered just after coming to his estate. 

“T find,” said he, “ you are a little given to the sin of 
authorship, which I renounce: if the anecdotes I have given 
you of my story are of any interest, you may make use of 
them ; but come down to Doubting Castle, and see how we 
live, and [ll give you my whole London life over a social 


4 


270 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


glass; and a rattling history it shall be about authors and 
reviewers,” 

If ever I visit Doubting Castle and get the history he 
promises, the public shall be sure to hear of it. 


PART THIRD. 


THE ITALIAN BANDITTI. 


MELE SDNN + AT: TERRACINA. 


RACK! crack! crack! crack! crack! 

“ Here comes the estafette from Naples,” said mine host 
of the inn at Terracina; “ bring out the relay.” 

The estafette came galloping up the road according to 
custom, brandishing over his head a short-handled whip, with 
a long, knotted lash, every smack of which made a report 
like a pistol. He was a tight, square-set young fellow, in 
the usual uniform : a smart blue coat, ornamented with facings 
and gold lace, but so short behind as to reach scarcely below 
his waistband, and cocked up not unlike the tail of a wren; a 
cocked hat edged with gold lace; a pair of stiff riding-boots ; 
but, instead of the usual leathern breeches, he had a fragment 
of a pair of drawers, that scarcely furnished an apology for 
modesty to hide behind. 

The estafette galloped up to the door, and jumped from 
his horse. 

“A glass of rosolio, a fresh horse, and a pair of breeches,” 
said he, “and quickly, per amor di Dio, 1 am behind my 
time, and must be off!” 

“San Gennaro!” replied the host; “why, where hast 


thou left thy garment ?” 
12 


274 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


“ Among the robbers between this and Fondi.” 

“ What, rob an estafette! I never heard of such folly. 
What could they hope to get from thee ?” 

“My leather breeches!” replied the estafette. “They 
were bran new, and shone like gold, and hit the fancy of the 
captain.” 

“Well, these fellows grow worse and worse. To meddle 
with an estafette! and that merely for the sake of a pair of 
leather breeches ! ” 

The robbing of the government messenger seemed to 
strike the host with more astonishment than any other enor- 
mity that had taken place on the road ; and, indeed, it was the 
first time so wanton an outrage had been committed; the 
robbers generally taking care not to meddle with any thing 
belonging to government. 

The estafette was by this time equipped, for he had not 
lost an instant in making his preparations while talking. The 
relay was ready ; the rosolio tossed off; he grasped the reins 
and the stirrup. 

“Were there many robbers in the band?” said a hand- 
some, dark young man, stepping forward from the door of 
the inn. 

“ As formidable a band as ever I saw,” said the estafette, 
springing into the saddle. 

“ Are they cruel to travellers?” said a beautiful young 
Venetian lady, who had been hanging on the gentleman’s arm. 

“Cruel, signora!” echoed the estafette, giving a glance 
at the lady as he put spurs to his horse. ‘Corpo di Bacco! 
They stiletto all the men; and, as to the women 4 
Crack! crack! crack! crack! crack!—The last words were 


THE INN AT TERRACINA. 275 


drowned in the smacking of the whip, and away galloped the 
estafette along the road to the Pontine marshes. 

“Holy Virgin!” ejaculated the fair Venetian, “ what wil’ 
become of us!” 

The inn of which we are speaking stands just outside of 
the walls of Terracina, under a vast precipitous height of 
rocks, crowned with the ruins of the castle of Theodric the 
Goth. The situation of Terracina is remarkable. It is a 
little, ancient, lazy Italian town, on the frontiers of the Roman 
territory. There seems to be an idle pause in every thing 
about the place. The Mediterranean spreads before it—that 
sea without flux or reflux. The port is without a sail, except- 
ing that once in a while a solitary felueca may be seen dis- 
gorging its holy cargo of baccala, or codfish, the meagre 
provision for the quaresima, or Lent. The inhabitants are 
apparently a listless, heedless race, as people of soft sunny 
climates are apt to be; but under this passive, indolent ex- 
terior are said to lurk dangerous qualities. They are sup- 
posed by many to be little better than the banditti of the 
neighboring mountains, and indeed to hold a secret corre- 
spondence with them. The solitary watchtowers, erected here 
and there along the coast, speak of pirates and corsairs that 
hover about these shores ; while the low huts, as stations for 
soldiers, which dot the distant road, as it winds up through 
an olive grove, intimate that in the ascent there is danger for 
the traveller, and facility for the bandit. Indeed, it is be- 
tween this town and Fondi that the road to Naples is most 
infested by banditti. It has several windings and solitary 
places, where the robbers are enabled to see the traveller 
from a distance, from the brows of hills or impending preci- 


276 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


pices, and to lie in wait for him at lonely and difficult 
passes. 

The Italian robbers are a desperate class of men, that 
have almost formed themselves into an order of society. 
They wear a kind of uniform, or rather costume, which openly 
designates their profession. This is probably done to dimin- 
ish its skulking, lawless character, and to give it something of 
a military air in the eyes of the common people; or, per- 
haps, to catch by outward show and finery the fancies of the 
young men of the villages, and thus to gain recruits. Their 
dresses are often very rich and picturesque. They wear jack- 
ets and breeches of bright colors, sometimes gayly embroid- 
ered; their breasts are covered with medals and relics; their 
hats are broad-brimmed, with conical crowns, decorated with 
feathers, of variously-colored ribands; their hair is sometimes 
gathered in silk nets; they wear a kind of sandal of cloth or 
leather, bound round the legs with thongs, and extremely 
flexible, to enable them to scramble with ease and celerity 
among the mountain precipices; a broad belt of cloth, or a 
sash of silk net, is stuck full of pistols and stilettos; a carbine 
is slung at the back; while about them is generally thrown, 
in a negligent manner, a great dingy mantle, which serves as 
a protection in storms, or a bed in their bivouacs among the 
mountains. 

They range over a great extent of wild country, along the 
chain of Apennines, bordering on different states; they know 
all the difficult passes, the short cuts for retreat, and the im- 
practicable forests of the mountain summits, where no force 
dare follow them. ‘They are secure of the good-will of the in- 
habitants of those regions, a poor and semi-barbarous race, 


THE INN AT TERRACINA. OTL 


whom they never disturb and often enrich. Indeed, they are 
considered as a sort of illegitimate heroes among the moun- 
tain villages, and in certain frontier towns where they dispose 
of their plunder. ‘Thus countenanced, and sheltered, and 
secure in the fastnesses of their mountains, the robbers have 
set the weak police of the Italian states at defiance. It is in 
vain that their names and descriptions are posted on the doors 
of country churches, and rewards offered for them alive or 
dead ; the villagers are either too much awed by the terrible 
instances of vengeance inflicted by the brigands, or have too 
good an understanding with them to be their betrayers. It is 
true they are now and then hunted and shot down like 
beasts of prey by the gens-d’armes, their heads put in iron 
cages, and stuck upon posts by the road-side, or their limbs 
hung up to blacken in the trees near the places where they 
have cormmitted their atrocities; but these ghastly spectacles 
only serve to make some dreary pass of the road still more 
dreary, and to dismay the traveller, without deterring the 
bandit. 

At the time that the estafette made his sudden appearance 
almost im cuerpo, as has been mentioned, the audacity of the 
robbers had risen to an unparalleled height. They had laid 
villas under contribution; they had sent messages into coun- 
try towns, to tradesmen and rich burghers, demanding sup- 
plies of money, of clothing, or even of luxuries, with menaces 
of vengeance in case of refusal. They had their spies and 
emissaries in every town, village, and inn, along the principal 
roads, to give them notice of the movements and quality of 
travellers. ‘They had plundered carriages, carried people of 


rank and fortune into the mountains, and obliged them to 
12* 


278 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


write for heavy ransoms, and had committed outrages on 
females who had fallen into their hands. 

Such was briefly the state of the robbers, or rather such 
was the account of the rumors prevalent concerning them, 
when the scene took place at the inn of Terracina. The dark 
handsome young man and the Venetian lady, incidentally 
mentioned, had arrived early that afternoon in a private car- 
riage drawn by mules, and attended by a single servant. 
They had been recently married, were spending the honey- 
moon in travelling through these delicious countries, and were 
on their way to visit a rich aunt of the bride at Naples. 

The lady was young, and tender, and timid. ‘The stories 
she had heard along the road had filled her with apprehension, 
not more for herself than for her husband; for though she had 
been married almost a month, she still loved him almost to 
idolatry. When she reached Terracina, the rumors of the 
road had increased to an alarming magnitude; and the sight 
of two robbers’ skulls, grinning in iron cages, on each side of 
the old gateway of the town, brought her to a pause. Her 
husband had tried in vain to reassure her; they had lingered 
all the afternoon at the inn, until it was too late to think of 
starting that evening, and the parting words of the estafette 
completed her affright. 

“Let us return to Rome,” said she, putting her arm with- 
in her husband’s, and drawing towards him as if for protection. 
—“ Let us return to Rome, and give up this visit to Naples.” 

“And give up the visit to your aunt, too?” said the hus- 
band. 

“ Nay—what is my aunt in comparison with your safety ?” 
said she, looking up tenderly in his face. 


THE INN AT TERRACINA. 279 


There was something in her tone and manner that showed 
she really was thinking more of her husband’s safety at the 
moment than of her own; and being so recently married, and 
a match of pure affection, too, it is very possible that she was: 
at least her husband thought so. Indeed any one who has 
heard the sweet musical tone of a Venetian voice, and the 
melting tenderness of a Venetian phrase, and felt the soft 
witchery of a Venetian eye, would not wonder at the husband’s 
believing whatever they professed. He clasped the white 
hand that had been laid within his, put his arm round her 
slender waist, and drawing her fondly to his bosom, “ This 
night, at least,” said he, “we will pass at Terracina.” 

Crack! crack! crack! crack! crack! Another apparition 
of the road attracted the attention of mine host and his guests. 
From the direction of the Pontine marshes, a carriage, drawn 
by half a dozen horses, came driving at a furious rate; the 
postilions smacking their whips like mad, as is the case when 
conscious of the greatness or of the munificence of their fare. It 
was a landaulet with a servant mounted on the dickey. The 
compact, highly-finished, yet proudly simple construction of 
the carriage; the quantity of neat, well-arranged trunks and 
conveniences; the loads of box-coats on the dickey ; the fresh, 
burly, blufflooking face of the master at the window; and the 
ruddy, round-headed servant, in close-cropped hair, short coat, 
drab breeches, and long gaiters, all proclaimed at once that 
this was the equipage of an Englishman. 

“ Horses to Fondi,” said the Englishman, as the landlord 
came bowing to the carriage door. 

“ Would not his Excellenza alight, and take some refresh- 
ments ?” 


280 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


““No—he did not mean to eat until he got to Fondi.” 

“ But the horses will be some time in getting ready.” 

“Ah! that’s always the way; nothing but delay in this 
cursed country !” 


f? 


“If his Excellenza would only walk into the house 

“ No, no, no !—I tell you no!—I want nothing but horses, 
and as quick as possible. John, see that the horses are got 
ready, and don’t let us be kept here an hour or two. Tell 
him if we’re delayed over the time, I’ll lodge a complaint with 
the postmaster.” 

John touched his hat, and set off to obey his master’s 
orders with the taciturn obedience of an English servant. 

In the mean time the Englishman got out of the carriage, 
and walked up and down before the inn, with his hands in his 
pockets, taking no notice of the crowd of idlers who were 
gazing at him and his equipage. He was tall, stout, and well 
made; dressed with neatness and precision; wore a travelling 
cap of the color of gingerbread ; and had rather an unhappy 
expression about the corners of his mouth: partly from not 
having yet made his dinner, and partly from not having been 
able to get on at a greater rate than seven miles an hour. 
Not that he had any other cause for haste than an English- 
man’s usual hurry to get to the end of a journey ; or, to use 
the regular phrase, “ to get on.” Perhaps, too, he was a little 
sore from having been fleeced at every stage. 

After some time, the servant returned from the stable with 
a look of some perplexity. 

“ Are the horses ready, John?” 

“No, sir—I never saw sucha place. There’s no getting 
any thing done. I think your honor had better step into 


THE INN AT TERRACINA. 281 


the house and get something to eat; it will be a long while 
before we get to Fundy.” 

“D—n the house—it’s a mere trick—lI’ll not eat any 
thing, just to spite them,” said the Englishman, still more 
crusty at the prospect of being so long without his dinner. 

“They say your honor’s very wrong,” said John, “ to set 
off at this late hour. The road’s full of highwaymen.” 

“ Mere tales to get custom.” 

“The estafette which passed us was stopped by a whole 
gang,” said John, increasing his emphasis with each additional 
piece of information. 

“JT don’t believe a word of it.” 

“They robbed him of his breeches,” said John, giving at 
the same time a hitch to his own waistband. 

“ All humbug!” 

Here the dark handsome young man stepped forward, and 
addressing the Englishman very politely, in broken English, 
invited him to partake of a repast he was about to make. 

“Thank’ee,’ said the Englishman, thrusting his hands 
deeper into his pockets, and casting a slight side-glance of 
suspicion at the young man, as if he thought, from his civility, 
he must have a design upon his purse. 

“ We shall be most happy, if you will do us the favor,” 
said the lady in her soft Venetian dialect. There was a sweet- 
ness in her accents that was most persuasive. The English- 
man cast a look upon her countenance; her beauty was still 
more eloquent. His features instantly relaxed. He made a 
polite bow. “ With great pleasure, Signora,” said he. 

In short, the eagerness to “get on” was suddenly slack- 


ened; the determination to famish himself as far as Fondi, by 


282 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


way of punishing the landlord, was abandoned; John chose 
an apartment in the inn for his master’s reception; and prepa- 
rations were made to remain there until morning. 

The carriage was unpacked of such of its contents as were 
indispensable for the night. There was the usual parade of 
trunks and writing-desks, and portfolios and dressing-boxes, 
and those other oppressive conveniences which burden a com- 
fortable man. The observant loiterers about the inn-door, 
wrapped up in great dirt-colored cloaks, with only a hawk’s- 
eye uncovered, made many remarks to each other on this 
quantity of luggage that seemed enough for an army. The 
domestics of the inn talked with wonder of the splendid dress- 
ing-case, with its gold and silver furniture, that was spread out 
on the toilet-table, and the bag of gold that chincked as it was 
taken out of the trunk. The strange A/lor’s wealth, and the 
greasures he carried about him, were the talk, that evening, 
over all Terracina. 

The Englishman took some time to make his ablutions 
and arrange his dress for table; and, after considerable labor 
and effort in putting himself at his ease, made his appearance, 
with stiff white cravat, his clothes free from the least speck of 
dust, and adjusted with precision. He made a civil bow on 
entering in the unprofessing English way, which the fair 
Venetian, accustomed to the complimentary salutations of the 
continent, considered extremely cold. 

The supper, as it was termed by the Italian, or dinner, as 
the Englishman called it, was now served: heaven and earth, 
and the waters under the earth, had been moved to furnish it ; 
for there were birds of the air, and beasts of the field, and fish 
of the sea. The Englishman’s servant, too, had turned the 


THE INN AT TERRACINA. 283 


kitchen topsy-turvy in his zeal to cook his master a beefsteak ; 
and made his appearance, loaded with ketchup, and soy, and 
Cayenne pepper, and Harvey sauce, and a bottle of port wine, 
from that warehouse, the carriage, in which his master seemed 
desirous of carrying England about the world with him.  In- 
deed the repast was one of those Italian farragoes which re- 
quire a little qualifying. The tureen of soup was a black sea, 
with livers, and limbs, and fragments of all kinds of birds, and 
beasts floating like wrecks about it. A meagre-winged 
animal, which my host called a delicate chicken, had evidently 
died of a consumption. The macaroni was smoked. The 
beefsteak was tough.buffalo’s flesh. There was what appeared 
to be a dish of stewed eels, of which the Englishman ate with 
great relish; but had nearly refunded them when told that 
they were vipers, caught among the rocks of Terracina, and 
esteemed a great delicacy. 

Nothing, however, conquers a traveller’s spleen sooner 
than eating, whatever may be the cookery; and nothing 
brings him into good humor with his company sooner than 
eating together; the Englishman, therefore, had not half 
finished his repast and his bottle, before he began to think the 
Venetian a very tolerable fellow for a foreigner, and his wife 
almost handsome enough to be an Englishwoman. 

In the course of the repast, the usual topics of travellers 
were discussed, and among others, the reports of robbers, 
which harassed the mind of the fair Venetian. The landlord 
and waiter dipped into the conversation with that familiarity 
permitted on the continent, and. served up so many bloody 
tales as they served up the dishes, that they almost frightened 
away the poor lady’s appetite. The Englishman, who had a 


284 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


national antipathy to every thing technically called “humbug,” 
listened to them all with a certain screw of the mouth, expres- 
sive of incredulity. There was the well-known story of the 
school of Terracina, captured by the robbers; and one of the 
scholars cruelly massacred, in order to bring the parents to 
terms for the ransom of the rest. And another, of a gentleman 
of Rome, who received his son’s.ear in a letter, with informa- 
tion, that his son would be remitted to him in this way, by in- 
stalments, until he paid the required ransom. 

The fair Venetian shuddered as she heard these tales; and 
the landlord, like a true narrator of the terrible, doubled the 
dose when he saw how it operated. He was just proceeding 
to relate the misfortunes of a great English lord and his 
family, when the Englishman, tired of his volubility inter- 
rupted him, and pronounced these accounts to be mere travel- 
lers’ tales, or the exaggerations of ignorant peasants, and de- 
signing innkeepers. The landlord was indignant at the doubt 
levelled at his stories, and the innuendo levelled at his cloth; 
he cited, in corroboration, half a dozen tales still more terrible. 

“T don’t believe a word of them,” said the Englishman. 

“ But the robbers have been tried and executed !” 

“ All a farce!” 

“ But their heads are stuck up along the road !” 

“ Old skulls accumulated during a century.” 

The landlord muttered to himself as he went out at the 
door, “San Gennaro! quanto sono singolari questi Inglesi!” 

A fresh hubbub outside of the inn announced the arrival 
of more travellers; and, from the variety of voices, or rather 


of clamors, the clattering of hoofs, the rattling of wheels, and 


THE INN AT TERRACINA. 285 


the general uproar both within and without, the arrival 
seemed to be numerous. 

It was, in fact, the procaccio and its convoy; a kind of 
caravan which sets out on certain days for the transportation 
of merchandise, with an escort of soldiery to protect it from 
the robbers. Travellers avail themselves of its protection, 
and a long file of carriages generally accompany it. 

A considerable time elapsed before either landlord or 
waiter returned; being hurried hither and thither by that 
tempest of noise and bustle, which takes place in an Italian inn 
on the arrival of any considerable accession of custom. 
When mine host reappeared, there was a smile of triumph on 
his countenance. 

“ Perhaps,” said he, as he cleared the table; “ perhaps 
the signor has not heard of what has happened ?” 

“What?” said the Englishman, dryly. 

“ Why, the procaccio has brought accounts of fresh ex- 
ploits of the robbers.” 

Bish 17? 

“There’s more news of the English Milor and his family,” 
said the host exultingly. 

“ An English lord? What English lord?” 

“ Milor Popkin.” 

“Lord Popkins? I never heard of such a title!” 

“ O! sicuro a great nobleman, who passed through here 
lately with mi ladi and her daughters. A magnifico, one of 
the grand counsellors of London, an almanno !” 

“ Almanno—almanno ?—tut—he means alderman.” 


“ Sicuro—Aldermanno Popkin, and the Principessa Pop- 


286 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


kin, and the Signorine Popkin?” said mine host, triumph- 
antly. 

He now put himself into an attitude, and would “have 
launched into a full detail, had he not been thwarted by the 
Englishman, who seemed determined neither to credit nor in- 
dulge him in his stories, but dryly motioned for him to clear 
away the table. 

An Italian tongue, however, is not easily checked; that of 
mine host continued to wag with increasing volubility, as he 
conveyed the relics of the past out of the room; and the last 
that could be distinguished of his voice, as it died away along 
the corridor, was the iteration of the favorite word, Popkin— 
Popkin—Popkin—pop—pop—pop. 

The arrival of the procaccio had, indeed, filled the house 
with stories, as it had with guests. The Englishman and his 
companions walked after supper up and down the large hall, 
or common room of the inn, which ran through the centre of 
the building. It was spacious and somewhat dirty, with tables 
placed in various parts, at which groups of travellers were 
seated ; while others strolled about, waiting, in famished im- 
patience, for their evening’s meal. 

It was a heterogeneous assemblage of people of all ranks 
and countries, who had arrived in all kinds of vehicles. 
Though distinct knots of travellers, yet the travelling to- 
gether, under one common escort, had jumbled them into a 
certain degree of companionship on the road ; besides, on the 
continent travellers are always familiar, and nothing is more 
motley than the groups which gather casually together in 
sociable conversation in the public rooms of inns. 


The formidable number, and formidable guard of the pro- 


THE INN AT TERRACINA. 287 


eaccio had prevented any molestation from banditti; but 
every party of travellers had its tale of wonder, and one car- 
riage vied with another in its budget of assertions and sur- 
mises. Fierce, whiskered faces had been seen peering over 
the rocks; carbines and stilettos gleaming from among the 
bushes; suspicious-looking fellows, with flapped hats, and 
scowling eyes, had occasionally reconnoitered a straggling 
carriage, but had disappeared on seeing the guard. 

The fair Venetian listened to all these stories with 
that avidity with which we always pamper any feeling of 
alarm ; even the Englishman began to feel interested in the 
common topic, desirous of getting more correct informa- 
tion than mere flying reports. Conquering, therefore, that 
shyness which is prone to keep an Englishman solitary in 
crowds, he approached one of the talking groups, the oracle 
of which was a tall, thin Italian, with long aquiline nose, a 
high forehead, and lively prominent eye, beaming from under 
a green velvet travelling-cap, with gold tassel. He was of 
Rome, a surgeon by profession, a poet by choice, and some- 
thing of an improvisatore. 

In the present instance, however, he was talking in plain 
prose, but holding forth with the fluency of one who talks 
well, and likes to exert his talent. A question or two from 
the [Englishman drew copious replies; for an Englishman 
sociable among strangers is regarded as a phenomenon on the 
continent, and always treated with attention for the rarity’s 
sake. The improvisatore gave much the same account of the 
banditti that I have already furnished. 

“But why does not the police exert itself, and root them 


out?” demanded the Englishman. 


288 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


“ Because the police is too weak, and the banditti are too 
strong,” replied the other. “T'o root them out would be a 
more difficult task than you imagine. They are connected 
and almost identified with the mountain peasantry and the 
people of the villages. ‘The numerous bands have an under- 
standing with each other, and with the country round. A 
gendarme cannot stir without their being aware of it. They 
have their scouts every where, who lurk about towns, vil- 
lages, and inns, mingle in every crowd, and pervade every 
place of resort. I should not be surprised if some one should 
be supervising us at this moment.” 

The fair Venetian looked round fearfully, and turned pale. 

Here the improvisatore was interrupted by a lively Nea- 
politan lawyer. 

“ By the way,” said he, “I recollect a little adventure of a 
learned doctor, a frend of mine, which happened in this very 
neighborhood; not far from the ruins of Theodric’s Castle, 
which are on the top of those great rocky heights above the 
town.” 

A wish was, of course, expressed to hear the adventure of 
the doctor, by all excepting the improvisatore, who, being fond 
of talking and of hearing himself talk, and accustomed, more- 
over, to harangue without interruption, looked rather an- 
noyed at being checked when in full career. The Neapolitan, 
however, took no notice of his chagrin, but related the follow- 


ing anecdote. 


ADVENTURE OF THE LITTLE ANTIQUARY. 


M* friend, the Doctor, was a thorough antiquary ; a lit- 

tle rusty, musty old fellow, always groping among ruins. 
He relished a building as you Englishmen relish a cheese,— 
the more mouldy and crumbling it was, the more it suited his 
taste. A shell of an old nameless temple, or the cracked 
walls of a broken-down amphitheatre, would throw him into 
raptures; and he took more delight in these crusts and 
cheese-parings of antiquity, than in the best-conditioned mod- 
ern palaces. 

He was a curious collector of coins also, and had just 
gained an accession of wealth that almost turned his brain. 
He had picked up, for instance, several Roman Consulars, 
half a Roman As, two Punics, which had doubtless belonged 
to the soldiers of Hannibal, having been found on the very 
spot where they had encamped among the Apennines. He 
had, moreover, one Samnite, struck after the Social War, and 
a Philistis, a queen that never existed; but above all, he 
valued himself upon a coin, indescribable to any but the 
initiated in these matters, bearing a cross on one side, and a 


pegasus on the other, and which, by some antiquarian logic, 


13 


290 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


the little man adduced as an historical document, illustrating 
the progress of Christianity. , 

All these precious coins he carried about him in a 
leathern purse, buried deep in a pocket of his little black 
breeches. 

The last maggot he had taken into his brain, was to hunt 
after the ancient cities of the Pelasgi, which are said to exist 
to this day among the mountains of the Abruzzi; but about 
which a singular degree of obscurity prevails.* He had 


*Among the many fond speculations of antiquaries is that of the exist- 
ence of traces of the ancient Pelasgian cities in the Apennines; and 
many a wistful eye is cast by the traveller, versed in antiquarian lore, 
at the richly-wooded mountains of the Abruzzi, as a forbidden fairy land 
of research. These spots, so beautiful, yet so inaccessible, from the 
rudeness of their inhabitants and the hordes of banditti which infest 
them, are aregion of fabletothe learned. Sometimesa wealthy virtuoso, 
whose purse and whose consequence could command a military escort, 


has penetrated to some individual point among the mountains; and 


sometimes a wandering artist or student, under protection of poverty or 
insignificance, has brought away some vague account, only calculated to 
give a keener edge to curiosity and conjecture. 

By those who maintain the existence of the Pelasgian cities, it is 
affirmed that the formation of the different kingdoms in the Pelopon- 
nesus gradually caused the expulsion thence of the Pelasgi; but that 
their great migration may be dated from the finishing the wall around 
Acropolis, and that at this period they came to Italy. To these, in the 
spirit of theory, they would ascribe the introduction of the elegant arts 
into the country. It is evident, however, that, as barbarians flying 
before the first dawn of civilization, they could bring little with them 
superior to the inventions of the aborigines, and nothing that would 
have survived to the antiquarian through sucha lapse of ages. It would 
appear more probable, that these cities, improperly termed Pelasgian, 
were coeval with many that have been discovered. The romantic 
Aricia, built by Hippolytus before the siege of Troy, and the poetic 
Tibur, /usculate and Proenes, built by Telegonus after the dispersion 
of the Greeks ;—these, lying contiguous to inhabited and cultivated spots, 
have been discovered. There are others, too, on the ruins of which the 


THE LITTLE ANTIQUARY. 291 


made many discoveries concerning them, and had recorded a 
great many valuable notes and memorandums on the subject, 
in a voluminous book, which he always carried about with 
him ; either for the purpose of frequent reference, or through 
fear lest the precious document should fall into the hands of 
brother antiquaries. He had, therefore, a large pocket in the 
skirt of his coat, where he bore about this inestimable tome, 
banging against his rear as he walked. 

Thus heavily laden with the spoils of antiquity, the good 
little man, during a sojourn at Terracina, mounted one day 
the rocky cliffs which overhang the town, to visit the castle of 
Theodric, He was groping about the ruins towards the hour 
of sunset, buried in his reflections, his wits no doubt wool- 
gathering among the Goths and Romans, when he heard foot- 
steps behind him. 

He turned, and beheld five or six young fellows, of rough, 
saucy demeanor, clad in a singular manner, half peasant, 
half huntsman, with carbines in their hands. Their whole 
appearance and carriage left him no doubt into what company 
he had fallen. 

The Doctor was a feeble little man, poor in look, and 
poorer in purse. He had but little gold or silver to be 
robbed of; but then he had his curious ancient coin in his 
breeches pocket. He had, moreover, certain other valuables, 


such as an old silver watch, thick as a turnip, with figures on 


latter and more civilized Grecian colonists have ingrafted themselves, 
and which have become known by their merits or their medals. But 
that there are many still undiscovered, imbedded in the Abruzzi, it is the 
delight of the antiquarians to fancy. Strange that such a virgin soil for 
research, such an unknown realm of knowledge, should at this day re- 
main in the very centre of hackneyed Italy! 


992 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


it large enough for a clock ; and a set of seals at the end of a 
steel chain, dangling half way down to his knees. All these 
were of precious esteem, being family relics. He had also a 
seal ring, a veritable antique intaglio, that covered half his 
knuckles. It was a Venus, which the old man almost wor- 
shipped with the zeal of a voluptuary. But what he most 
valued was his inestimable collection of hints relative to the 
Pelasgian citics, which he would gladly have given all the 
money in his pocket to have had safe at the bottom of his 
trunk in Terracina. 

However, he plucked up a stout heart, at least as stout a 
heart as he could, seeing that he was but a puny little man at 
the best of times. So he wished the hunters a “ buon 
giorno.” ‘They returned his salutation, giving the old gentle- 
man a sociable slap on the back that made his heart leap into 
his throat. | 

They fell into conversation, and walked for some time 
together among the heights, the Doctor wishing them all the 
while at the bottom of the crater of Vesuvius. At length 
they came to a small osteria on the mountain, where they 
proposed to enter and have a cup of wine together: the 
Doctor consented, though he would as soon have been invited 
to drink hemlock. 

One of the gang remained sentinel at the door; the other 
swaggered into the house, stood their guns in the corner of 
the room, and each drawing a pistol or stiletto out of his belt, 
laid it upon the table. They now drew benches round the 
board, called lustily for wine, and, hailing the Doctor as 
though he had been a boon companion of long standing, in- 


sisted upon his sittmg down and making merry. 


THE LITTLE ANTIQUARY. 293 


The worthy man complied with forced grimace, but with 
fear and trembling; sitting uneasily on the edge of his chair ; 
eyeing ruefully the black-muzzled pistols, and cold, naked 
stilettos; and supping down heartburn with every drop of 
liquor. His new comrades, however, pushed the bottle 
bravely, and plied him vigorously. They sang, they laughed ; 
told excellent stories of their robberies and combats, mingled 
with many-ruffian jokes, and the little Doctor was fain to 
laugh at all their cut-throat pleasantries, though his heart 
was dying away at the very bottom of his bosom. 

By their own account, they were young men from the 
villages, who had recently taken up this line of life out of the 
wild caprice of youth. They talked of their murderous 
exploits as a sportsman talks of his amusements: to shoot 
down a traveller seemed of little more consequence to them 
than to shoot a hare. They spoke with rapture of the 
glorious roving life they led, free as birds; here to-day, gone 
to-morrow ; ranging the forests, climbing the rocks, scouring 
the valleys; the world their own wherever they could lay 
hold of it; full purses—merry companions—pretty women. 
The little antiquary got fuddled with their talk and their 
wine, for they did not spare bumpers. He half forgot 
his fears, his seal-ring, and his family watch; even the 
treatise on the Pelasgian cities, which was warming under 
him, for a time faded from his memory in the glowing 
picture that they drew. He declares that he no longer 
wonders at the prevalence of this robber mania among the 
mountains ; for he felt at the time, that, had he been a young 


man, and a strong man, and had there been no danger of the 


294 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


galleys in the background, he should have been half tempted 
himself to turn bandit. 

At length the hour of separating arrived. The Doctor 
was suddenly called to himself and his fears by seeing the 
robbers resume their weapons. He now quaked for his 
valuables, and, above all, for his antiquarian treatise. He 
endeavored, however, to look cool and unconcerned ; and 
drew from out his deep pocket a long, lank, leathern purse, 
far gone in consumption, at the bottom of which a few coin 
chinked with the trembling of his hand. 

The chief of the party observed his movement, and laying 
his hand upon the antiquary’s shoulder, “ Harkee! Signor 
Dottore!” said he, “ we have drunk together as friends and 
comrades; let us part as such. We understand you. We 
know who and what you are, for we know who every body is 
that sleeps at Terracina, or that puts foot upon the road. 
You are arich man, but you carry all your wealth in your 
head: we cannot get at it, and we should not know what to 
do with it if we could. I see you are uneasy about your 
ring; but don’t worry yourself, it is not worth taking; you 
think it an antique, but it’s a counterfeit—a mere sham.” 

Here the ire of the antiquary rose: the Doctor forgot 
himself in his zeal for the character of his ring. Heaven and 
earth! his Venus a sham! Had they pronounced the wife of 
his bosom “no better than she should be,” he could not have 
been more indignant. He fired up in vindication of his 
intaglio, 


’ continued the robber, “ we have no time to 


“ Nay, nay,’ 
dispute about it; value it as you please. Come, you're a 


brave little old signor—one more cup of wine, and we'll pay 


THE LITTLE ANTIQUARY. 995 


the reckoning. No compliments—you shall not pay a grain 
—you are our guest—lI insist upon it. So—now make the 
best of your way back to Terracina; it’s growing late. 
Buono viaggio! And harkee! take care how you wander 
among these mountains,—you may not always fall into such 
good company.” 

They shouldered their guns; sprang gayly up the rocks ; 
and the little Doctor hobbled back to Terracina, rejoicing 
that the robbers had left his watch, his coins, and his treatise, 
unmolested ; but still indignant that they should have pro- 


nounced his Venus an impostor. 


The improyisatore had shown many symptoms of impa- 
tience during this recital. He saw his theme in danger of 
being taken out of his hands, which to an able talker is 
always a grievance, but to an improvisatore is an absolute 
calamity : and then for it to be taken away by a Neapolitan 
was still more vexatious; the inhabitants of the different 
Italian states having an implacable jealousy of each other in 
all things, great and small. He took advantage of the first 
pause of the Neapolitan to catch hold again of the thread of 
the conversation. 

“As I observed before,” said he, “the prowlings of the 
banditti are so extensive; they are so much in league with 


one another, and so interwoven with various ranks of so- 


99 


ciety . 
“or that matter,” said the Neapolitan, “I have heard 
that your government has had some understanding with those 


gentry ; or, at least, has winked at their misdeeds.” 


296 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


“ My government ?” said the Roman, impatiently. 

“ Ay, they say that Cardinal Gonsalvi—” 

“Hush!” said the Roman, holding up his finger, and 
rolling his large eyes about the room. 

“Nay, I only repeat what I heard commonly rumored in 
Rome,” replied the Neapolitan, sturdily. “It was openly 
said, that the cardinal had been up to the mountains and had 
an interview with some of the chiefs. And I have been told, 
moreover, that while honest people have been kicking their 
heels in the cardinal’s antechamber, waiting by the hour for 
admittance, one of those stiletto-looking fellows has elbowed 
his way through the crowd, and entered without ceremony 
into the cardinal’s presence.” 


’ observed the improvisatore, “ that there have 


“T know,’ 
been such reports, and it is not impossible that government 
may have made use of these men at particular periods: such 
as at the time of your late abortive revolution, when your 
carbonari were so busy with their machinations all over the 
country. The ‘information which such men could collect, who 
were familiar, not merely with the recesses and secret places 
of the mountains, but also with the dark and dangerous 
recesses of society; who knew every suspicious character, 
and all his movements and all his lurkings ; in-a word, who 
knew all that was plotting in a world of mischief ;—the 
utility of such men as instruments in the hands of government 
was too obvious to be overlooked ; and Cardinal Gonsalvi, as 
a politic statesman, may, perhaps, have made use of them: 
Besides, he knew that, with all their atrocities, the robbers 
were always respectful towards the church, and devout in 


their religion.” 


THE LITTLE ANTIQUARY. 297 


“ Religion! religion!’ echoed the Englishman. 

“Yes, religion,’ repeated the Roman. “They have each 
their patron saint. ‘They will cross themselves and say their 
prayers, whenever, in their mountain haunts, they hear the 
matin or the Ave-Maria bells sounding from the valleys; 
and will often descend from their retreats, and run imminent 
risks to visit some favorite shrine. I recollect an instance in 
point. 

“JT was one evening in the village of Frascati, which 
stands on the beautiful brow of a hill rising from the 
Campagna, just below the Abruzzi mountains. The people, as 
is usual in fine evenings in our Italian towns and villages, 
were recreating themselves in the open air, and chatting in 
groups in the public square. While I was conversing with a 
knot of friends, I noticed a tall fellow, wrapped in a great 
mantle, passing across the square, but skulking along in the 
dusk, as if anxious to avoid observation. The people drew 
back as he passed. It was whispered to me that he was a 
notorious bandit.” 

“But why was he not immediately seized?” said the 
Englishman. 

“ Because it was nobody’s business; because nobody 
wished to incur the vengeance of his comrades; because 
there were not sufficient gendarmes near to insure security 
against the number of desperadoes he might have at hand ; 
because the gendarmes might not have received particular 
instructions with respect to him, and might not feel disposed 
to engage in a hazardous conflict without compulsion. In 
short, I might give you a thousand reasons rising out of the 


13* 


298 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


state of our government and manners, not one of which after 
all might appear satisfactory.” 

The Englishman shrugged his shoulders with an air of 
contempt. 

“JT have been told,” added the Roman, rather quickly, 
“that even in your metropolis of London, notorious thieves, 
well known to the police as such, walk the streets at noonday 
in search of their prey, and are not molested unless caught in 
the very act of robbery.” 

The Englishman gave another shrug, but with a different 
expression. | 

“Well, sir, I fixed my eye on this daring wolf, thus 
prowling through the fold, and saw him enter a church. I 
was curious to witness his devotion. You know our spacious 
magnificent churches. The one in which he entered was vast, 
and shrouded in the dusk of evening. At the extremity of 
the long aisles a couple of tapers feebly glimmered on the 
grand altar. In one of the side chapels was a votive candle 
placed before the image of a saint. Before this image the 
robber had prostrated himself. is mantle partly falling off 
from his shoulders as he knelt, revealed a form of Herculean 
strength ; a stiletto and pistol glittered in nis belt; and the 
light falling on his countenance, showed features not unhand- 
some, but strongly and fiercely characterized. As he prayed, 
he became vehemently agitated; his lips quivered; sighs and 


murmurs, almost groans, burst from him ; he beat his breast 


with violence ; then clasped his hands and wrung them con- 


vulsively, as he extended them towards the image. Never 
had I seen such a terrific picture of remorse. I felt fearful of 
being discovered watching him, and withdrew. Shortly after- 


THE LITTLE ANTIQUARY. 299 


wards, I saw him issue from the church wrapped in his 
mantle. He re-crossed the square, and no doubt returned to 
the mountains with a disburdened conscience, ready to incur 
a fresh arrear of crime.” 

Here the Neapolitan was about to get hold of the conver- 
sation, and had just preluded with the ominous remark, 
“That puts me in mind of a circumstance,” when the impro- 
visatore, too adroit to suffer himself to be again superseded, 
went on, pretending not to hear the interruption. 

“ Among the many circumstances connected with the ban- 
ditti, which serve to render the traveller uneasy and insecure, 
is the understanding which they sometimes have with inn- 
keepers. Many an isolated inn among the lonely parts of 
the Roman territories, and especially about the mountains, 
are of a dangerous and perfidious character. They are places 
where the banditti gather information, and where the unwary 
traveller, remote from hearing or assistance, is betrayed to 
the midnight dagger. The robberies committed at such 
inns are often accompanied by the most atrocious murders ; 
for it is only by the complete extermination of their victims 
that the assassins can escape detection. I recollect an adven- 
ture,” added he, “ which occurred at one of these solitary 
mountain inns, which, as you all seem in a mood for robber 
anecdotes, may not be uninteresting.” 

Having secured the attention and awakened the curiosity 
of the by-standers, he paused for a moment, rolled up his 
large eyes as improvisatori are apt to do when they would 
recollect an impromptu, and then related with great dramatic 
effect the following story, which had, doubtless, been well 
prepared and digested beforehand. 


THE BELATED TRAVELLERS. 


T was late one evening that a carriage, drawn by mules, 
slowly toiled its way up one of the passes of the Apen- 
nines. It was through one of the wildest defiles, where a 
hamlet ‘occurred only at distant intervals, perched on the 
summit of some rocky height, or the white towers of a con- 
vent peeped out from among the thick mountain foliage. 
The carriage was of ancient and ponderous construction. Its 
faded embellishments spoke of former splendor, but its crazy 
springs and axle-trees creaked out the tale of present decline. 
Within was seated a tall, thin old gentleman, in a kind of 
military travelling dress, and a foraging cap trimmed with 
fur, though the gray locks which stole from under it hinted 
that his fighting days were over. Beside him was a pale, 
beautiful girl of eighteen, dressed in something of a northern 
or Polish costume. One servant was seated in front, a rusty, 
crusty looking fellow, with a scar across his face, an orange- 
tawny schnu7-bart or pair of mustaches, bristling from under 
his nose, and altogether the air of an old soldier. 
It was, in fact, the equipage of a Polish nobleman; a 
wreck of one of those princely families once of almost orien- 
tal magnificence, but broken down and impoverished by the 


THE BELATED TRAVELLERS. 301 


disasters of Poland. The Count, like many other generous 
spirits, had been found guilty of the crime of patriotism, and 
was, in a manner, an exile from his country. He had resided 
for some time in the first cities of Italy, for the education of 
his daughter, in whom all his cares and pleasures were now 
centred. He had taken her into society, where her beauty 
and her accomplishments gained her many. admirers; and 
had she not been the daughter of a poor broken-down Polish 
nobleman, it is more than probable many would have con- 
tended for her hand. Suddenly, however, her health became 
delicate and drooping ; her gayety fled with the roses of her 
cheek, and she sank into silence and debility. The old Count 
saw the change with the solicitude of a parent. “ We must 
try a change of air and scene,” said he; and in a few days 
the old family carriage was rumbling among the Apennines. 

Their only attendant was the veteran Caspar, who had been 
born in the family, and grown rusty in its service. He had 
followed his master in all his fortunes; had fought by his 
side; had stood over him when fallen in battle; and had 
received, in his defence, the sabre-cut which added such grim- 
ness to his countenance. He was now his valet, his steward, 
his butler, his factotum. The only being that rivalled his 
master in his affections was his youthful mistress. She had 
grown up under his eye, he had led her by the hand when she 
was a child, and he now looked upon her with the fondness of 
a parent. Nay, he even took the freedom of a parent in 
giving his blunt opinion on all matters which he thought 
were for her good; and felt a parent’s vanity at seeing her 
gazed at and admired. 


The evening was thickening; they had been for some 
13* 


302 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


time passing through narrow gorges of the mountains, along 
the edges of a tumbling stream. The scenery was lonely and 
savage. The rocks often beetled over the road, with flocks of 
white goats browzing on their brinks, and gazing down upon 
the travellers. They had between two or three leagues yet 
to go before they could reach any village; yet the muleteer, 
Pietro, a tippling old fellow, who had refreshed himself at the 
last halting-place with a more than ordinary quantity of wine, 
sat singing and talking alternately to his mules, and suffering 
them to lag on at a snail’s pace, in spite of the frequent 
entreaties of the Count and maledictions of Caspar. 

The clouds began to roll in heavy masses along the moun- 
tains, shrouding their summits from view. The air was 
damp and chilly. The Count’s solicitude on his daughter’s 
account overcame his usual patience. He leaned from the 
carriage, and called to old Pietro in an angry tone: 

“Forward!” said he. “It will be midnight before we 
arrive at our inn.” 

“Yonder it is, Signor,” said the muleteer. 

“ Where ?”’ demanded the Count. 

“ Yonder,” said Pietro, pointing to a desolate pile about 
a quarter of a league distant. 

“ That the place ?—why, it looks more like a ruin than an 
inn. I thought we were to put up for the night at a comfort- 
able village.” 

Here Pietro uttered a string of piteous exclamations and 
ejaculations, such as are ever at the tip of the tongue of a 
delinquent muleteer. “Such roads! and such mountains! 
and then his poor animals were way-worn, and leg-weary ; 


they would fall lame; they would never be able to reach the — 


THE BELATED TRAVELLERS. 3803 


village. And then what could his Excellenza wish for better 


than the inn; a perfect custella—a palazza 


and such people! 
—and such a larder !—and such beds !—His Excellenza 
might fare as sumptuously, and sleep as soundly there as a 
prince!” 

The Count was easily persuaded, for he was anxious to 
get his daughter out of the night air; so in a little while the 
old carriage rattled and jingled into the great gateway of the 
inn. 

The building did certainly in some measure answer to 
the muleteer’s description. It was large enough for either cas- 
tle or palace; built in a strong, but simple and almost rude 
style; with a great quantity of waste room. It had in fact 
been, in former times, a hunting-seat of one of the Italian 
princes. There was space enough within its walls and 
out-buildings to have accommodated a little army. A 
scanty household seemed now to people this dreary mansion. 
The faces that presented themselves on the arrival of the 
travellers were begrimed with dirt, and scowling in their ex- 
pression. They all knew old Pietro, however, and gave him 
a welcome as he entered, singing and talking, and almost 
whooping, into the gateway. 

The hostess of the inn waited, herself, on the Count and 
his daughter, to show them the apartments. They were con- 
ducted through a long gloomy corridor, and then through a 
suite of chambers opening into each other, with lofty ceilings, 
and great beams extending across them. Every thing, how- 
ever, had a wretched, squalid look. The walls were damp 


and bare, excepting that here and there hung some great 


304 ~ TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


painting, large enough for a chapel, and blackened out of all 


distinction. 


They chose two. bedrooms, one within another; the inner 


one for the daughter. The bedsteads were massive and mis- 
shapen ; but on examining the beds so vaunted by ‘old Pietro 
they found them stuffed with fibres of hemp knotted in great 
lumps. The Count shrugged his shoulders, but there was no 
choice left. 

The chilliness of the apartments crept to their bones; 
and. they were glad to return to a common chamber or kind 
of hall, where was a fire burning in a huge cavern, miscalled 
a chimney. A quantity of green wood, just thrown on, 
puffed out volumes of smoke. The room corresponded to 
the rest of the mansion. The floor was paved and dirty. A 
great oaken table stood in the centre, immovable from: its 
size and weight. The only thing that contradicted this preva- 
lent air of indigence was the dress of the hostess. She was a 
slattern of course; yet her garments, though dirty and negli- 
gent, were of costly materials. She wore several rings of 
great value on her fingers, and jewels in her ears, and round 
her neck was a string of large pearls, to which was attached 
a sparkling crucifix. She had the remains of beauty, yet 
there was something in the expression of her countenance 
that inspired the young lady with singular aversion. She 
was officious and obsequious in her attentions, and both the 
Count and his daughter felt relieved, when she consigned them 
to the care of a dark, sullen-looking servant-maid, and went 
off to superintend the supper. 

Caspar was indignant at the muleteer for having, either 


through negligence or design, subjected his master and mis- 


THE BELATED TRAVELLERS. 305 


tress to such quarters ; and vowed by his mustaches to have 
revenge on the old varlet the moment they were safe out 
from among the mountains. He kept up a continual quarrel 
with the sulky servant-maid, which only served to increase 
the sinister expression with which she regarded the travellers, 
from under her strong dark eyebrows. 

As to the Count, he was a good-humored passive traveller. 
Perhaps real misfortunes had subdued his spirit, and rendered 
him tolerant of many of those petty evils which make pros- 
perous men miserable. He drew a large broken arm-chair 
to the fireside for his daughter, and another for himself, and 
seizing an enormous pair of tongs, endeavored to rearrange 
the wood so as to produce a blaze. His efforts, however, 
were only repaid by thicker puffs of smoke, which almost 
overcame the good gentleman’s patience. He would draw 
back, cast a look upon his delicate daughter, then upon the 
cheerless, squalid apartment, and, shrugging his shoulders, 
would give a fresh stir to the fire. 

Of all the miseries of a comfortless inn, however, there is 
none greater than sulky attendance: the good Count for some 
time bore the smoke in silence, rather than address himself 
to the scowling servant-maid. At length he was compelled 
to beg for drier firewood. The woman retired muttering. 
On re-entering the room hastily, with an armful of fagots, 
her foot slipped; she fell, and striking her head against the 
corner of a chair, cut her temple severely. 

The blow stunned her for a time, and the wound bled 
profusely. When she recovered, she found the Count’s 
daughter administering to her wound, and binding it up 


with her own handkerchief. It was such an attention as any 


306 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


woman of ordinary feeling would have yielded; but perhaps 
there was something in the appearance of the lovely being 
who bent over her, or in the tones of her voice, that touched 
the heart of the woman, unused to be administered to by such 
hands. Certain it is, she was strongly affected. She caught 
the delicate hand of the Polonaise, and pressed it fervently 
to her lips: 

“May San Francesco watch over you, Signora!” ex 
claimed she. 

A new arrival broke the stillness of the inn. It was a 
Spanish princess with a numerous retinue. The court yard 
was in an uproar; the house in a bustle. The landlady 
hurried to attend such distinguished guests: and the poor 
Count and his daughter, and their supper, were for a 
moment forgotten. The veteran Caspar muttered Polish 
maledictions enough to agonize an Italian ear; but it was 
impossible to convince the hostess of the superiority of his 
old master and young mistress to the whole nobility of 
Spain. 

The noise of the arrival had attracted the daughter to the 
window just as the new comers had alighted. A young 
cavalicr sprang out of the carriage and handed out the 
Princess. The latter was a little shrivelled old lady, with a 
face of parchment and sparkling black eye; she was richly 
and gayly dressed, and walked with the assistance of a golden- 
headed cane as high as herself. The young man was tall and 
elegantly formed. The Count’s daughter shrank back at the 
sight of him, though the deep frame of the window screened 
her from observation. She gave a heavy sigh as she closed 


the casement. What that sigh meant I cannot say. Perhaps 


THE BELATED TRAVELLERS. 307 


it was at the contrast between the splendid equipage of the 
Princess, and the crazy rheumatic-looking old vehicle of her 
father, which stood hard by. Whatever might be the rea- 
son, the young lady closed the casement with a sigh. She 
returned to her chair,—a slight shivering passed over her 
delicate frame: she leaned her elbow on the arm of the chair, 
rested her pale cheek in the palm of her hand, and looked 
mournfully into the fire. 

The Count thought she appeared paler than usual. 

“ Does anything ail thee, my child?” said he. 

“ Nothing, dear father!” replied she, laying her hand 
within his, and looking up smiling in his face; but as she 
said so, a treacherous tear rose suddenly to. her eye, and she 
turned away her head. 

“ The air of the window has chilled thee,” said the Count, 
fondly, “ but a good night’s rest will make all well again.” 

The supper table was at length laid, and the supper 
about to be served, when the hostess appeared, with her usual 
obsequiousness, apologizing for showing in the new-comers ; 
but the night air was cold, and there was no other chamber 
in the inn with a fire in it. She had scarcely made the 
apology when the Princess entered, leaning on the arm of the 
elegant young man. 

The Count immediately recognized her for a lady whom 
he had met frequently in society, both at Rome and Naples ; 
and at whose conversaziones, in fact, he had been constantly 
invited. The cavalier, too, was her nephew and heir, who 
had been greatly admired in the gay circles both for his 
merits and prospects, and who had once been on a visit at 


the same time with his daughter and himself at the villa of 


308 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


a nobleman near Naples. Report had recently afhanced him 
to a rich Spanish heiress. 

The meeting was agreeable to both the Count and the 
Princess. The former was a gentleman of the old school, 
courteous in the extreme; the Princess had been a belle in 
her youth, and a woman of fashion all her life, and liked to 
be attended to. 

The young man approached the daughter, and began some- 
thing of a complimentary observation ; but his manner was 
embarrassed, and his compliment ended in an indistinct mur- 
mur; while the daughter bowed without looking up, moved 
her lips without articulating a word, and sank again into her 
chair, where she sat gazing into the fire, with a thousand 
varying expressions passing over her countenance. 

This singular greeting of the young people was not per- 
ceived by the old ones, who were occupied at the time with 
their own courteous salutations. It was arranged that they 
should sup together; and as the Princess travelled with her 
own cook, a very tolerable supper soon smoked upon the 
board. ‘This, too, was assisted by choice wines, and liquors, 
and delicate confitures brought from one of her carriages ; for 
she was a veteran epicure, and curious in her relish for the good 
things of this world. She was, in fact, a vivacious little old 
lady, who mingled the woman of dissipation with the devotee. 
She was actually on her way to Loretto to expiate a long life 
of gallantries and peccadilloes by a rich offering at the holy 
shrine. She was, to be sure, rather a luxurious penitent, and 
a contrast to the primitive pilgrims, with scrip and staff, and 
cockle-shell ; but then it would be unreasonable to expect 


such self-denial from people of fashion; and there was not a 


—. 


THE BELATED TRAVELLERS. 309 


doubt of the ample efficacy of the rich crucifixes, and golden 
vessels, and jeweled ornaments, which she was bearing to the 
treasury of the blessed Virgin. 

The Princess and the Count chatted much during supper 
about the scenes and society in which they had mingled, and 
did not notice that they had all the conversation to them- 
selves: the young people were silent and constrained. The 
daughter ate nothing in spite of the politeness of the Princess, 
who continually pressed her to taste of one or other of the 
delicacies. The Count shook his head. 


” said he. “I thought she 


“She is not well this evening, 
would have fainted just now as she was looking out of the 
window at your carriage on its arrival.” 

A crimson glow flushed to the very temples of the 
daughter ; but she leaned over her plate, and her tresses cast 
a shade over her countanance. 

When supper was over, they drew their chairs about the 
great fire-place. The flame and smoke had subsided, and a 
heap of glowing embers diffused a grateful warmth. A 
guitar, which had been brought from the Count’s carriage, 
leaned against the wall; the Princess perceived it: “Can we 
not have a little music before parting for the night?” de- 
manded she. | 

The Count was proud of his daughter’s accomplishment, 
and joined in the request.. The young man made an effort 
of politeness, and taking up the guitar, presented it, though in 
an embarrassed manner, to the fair musician. She would 
have declined it, but was too much confused to do so; indeed, 
she was so nervous and agitated, that she dared not trust her 


voice to make an excuse. She touched the instrument with a 


310 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


faltering hand, and, after preluding a little, accompanied her- 
self in several Polish airs. Her father’s eyes glistened as he 
sat gazing on her. Even the crusty Caspar lingered in the 
room, partly through a fondness for the music of his native 
country, but chiefly through his pride in the musician. 
Indeed the melody of the voice, and the delicacy of the touch, 
were enough to have charmed more fastidious ears. The 
little Princess nodded her head and tapped her hand to the 
music, though exceedingly out of time; while the nephew sat 
buried in profound contemplation of a black picture on the 
opposite wall. 

“And now,” said the Count, patting her cheek fondly, 
“one more favor. Let the Princess hear that little Spanish 
air you were so fond of. You can’t think,” added he, “ what 
a proficiency she has made in your language ; though she has 
been a sad girl and neglected it of late.” 

The color flushed the pale cheek of the daughter. She 
hesitated, murmured something; but with sudden effort, 
collected herself} struck the guitar boldly, and began. It 
was a Spanish romance, with something of love and melan- 
choly in it. She gave the first stanza with great expression, 
for the tremulous melting tones of her voice went to the 
heart ; but her articulation failed, her lips quivered, the 
song died away, and she burst into tears. 

The Count folded her tenderly in his arms. “Thou art 
not well my child,” said he, “ and I am tasking thee cruelly. 
Retire to thy chamber, and God bless thee!” She bowed 
to the company without raising her eyes, and glided out of 
the room. . 

The Count shook his head as the door closed. “Some- 


THE BELATED TRAVELLERS. Sit 


thing is the matter with that child,” said he, “ which I cannot 
divine. She has lost all health and spirits lately. She was 
always a tender flower, and I had much pains to rear her. 
Excuse a father’s foolishness,” continued he, “ but I have seen 
much trouble in my family ; and this poor girl is all that is 


now left to me; and she used to be so lively sa 


“ Maybe she’s in love!” said the little Princess, with a 
shrewd nod of the head. 

“Impossible!” replied the good Count artlessly. ‘She 
has never mentioned a word of such a thing to me.” 

How little did the worthy gentleman dream of the 
thousand cares, and griefs, and mighty love concerns which 
agitate a virgin heart, and which a timid girl scarcely 
breathes unto herself. 

The nephew of the Princess rose abruptly and walked 
about the room. 

When she found herself alone in her chamber, the feelings 
of the young lady, so long restrained, broke forth with vio- 
lence. She opened the casement that the cool air might blow 
upon her throbbing temples. Perhaps there was some little 
pride or pique mingled with her emotions; though her gentle 
nature did not seem calculated to harbor any such angry 
inmate. 


!” said she, with a sudden mantling 


“He saw me weep 
of the cheek, and a swelling of the throat,—‘ but no matter ! 
—no matter!” 

And so saying, she threw her white arm across the win- 
dow frame, buried her face in them, and abandoned herself to 
an agony of tears. She remained lost in a reverie, until the 


sound of her father’s and Caspar’s voices in the adjoining 


$12 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


room gave token that the party had retired for the night. 
The lights gleaming from window to window, showed that 
they were conducting the Princess to her apartments, which 
were in the opposite wing of the inn; and she distinctly saw 
the figure of the nephew as he passed one of the easements. 

She heaved a deep heart-drawn sigh, and was about to 
close the lattice, when her attention was caught by words 
spoken below her window by two persons who had just 
turned an angle of the building. 

“But what will become of the poor young lady ?” said a 
voice, which she recognized for that of the servant-woman. 

“Pooh! she must take her chance,” was the reply from 
old Pietro. 

“But cannot she be spared?” asked the other entreat- 
ingly ; “she’s so kind-hearted !” 

“Cospetto! what has got into thee?” replied the other 
petulantly : “ would you mar the whole business for the sake 
of a silly girl?” By this time they had got so far from the 
window that the Polonaise could hear nothing further. There 
was something in this fragment of conversation calculated to 


alarm. Did it relate to herself ?—and if so, what was this 


impending danger from which it was entreated that she might 
be spared? She was several times on the point of tapping 
at her father’s door, to tell him what she had heard, but she 
might have been mistaken; she might have heard indis- 
tinctly ; the conversation might have alluded to some one 
else; at any rate, it was too indefinite to lead to any conclu- 
sion. While in this state of irresolution, she was startled 
by a low knock against the waincost in a remote part of her 
gloomy chamber. On holding up the light, she beheld a 


THE BELATED TRAVELLERS. 3138 


small door there, which she had not before remarked. It 
was bolted on the inside. She advanced, and demanded who 
knocked, and was answered in a voice of the female domestic. 
On opening the door, the woman stood before it pale and 
agitated. She entered softly, laying her finger on her lips as 
in sign of caution and secrecy. 

“Fly!” said she: “leave this house instantly, or you 
are lost!” 

The young lady trembling with alarm, demanded an ex- 
planation. 


’ replied the woman, “I dare not—I 


“T have no time,’ 
shall be missed if I linger here—but fly instantly, or you are 
lost.” 

“ And leave my father 2?” 

“ Where is he ?” 

“Tn the adjoining chamber.” 

“ Call him, then, but lose no time.” 

The young lady knocked at her father’s door. He was 
not yet retired to bed. She hurried into his room, and told 
him of the fearful warnings she had received. The Count re- 
turned with her into the chamber, followed by Caspar. His 
questions soon drew the truth out of the embarrassed answers 
of the woman. The inn was beset by robbers. They were 
to be introduced after midnight, when the attendants of the 
Princess and the rest of the travellers were sleeping, and 
would be an easy prey. 

“ But we can barricade the inn, we can defend ourselves,” 
said the Count. 

“What! when the people of the inn are in league with 
the banditti ?” 

14 


314 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


“ How then are we to escape? Can we not order out 
the carriage and depart ?”’ 

“San Francesco! for what? to give the alarm that the 
plot is discovered? That would make the robbers desperate, 
and bring them on you at once. They have had notice of 
the rich booty in the inn, and will not easily let it escape 
them.” 

“ But how else are we to get off?” 

“There is a horse behind the inn,” said the woman, “ from 
which the man has just dismounted who has been to summon 
the aid of part of the band at a distance.” 

“ One horse; and there are three of us!”’ said the Count. 

“And the Spanish Princess!” cried the daughter anx- 
iously—* How can she be extricated from the danger ?” 

“ Diavolo! what is she to me?” said the woman in 
sudden passion. “It is you I come to save, and you will 
betray me, and we shall all be lost! Hark!” continued she, “I 
am called—I shall be discovered—one word more. This door 
leads by a staircase to the courtyard. Under the shed, in the 
rear of the yard, is a small door leading out to the fields. 
You will find a horse there; mount it; make a circuit under 
the shadow of a ridge of rocks that you will see; proceed 
cautiously and quietly until you cross a brook, and find your- 
self on the road just where there are three white crosses 
nailed against a tree; then put your horse to his speed, and 
make the best of your way to the village—but recollect, my 
life is in your hands—say nothing of what you haye heard or 
seen, whatever may happen at this inn.” 

The woman hurried away.. A short and agitated consul- 
tation took place between the Count, his daughter, and the 


THE BELATED TRAVELLERS. B15 


veteran Caspar. The young lady seemed to have lost all 
apprehension for herself in her solicitude for the safety of 
the Princess. “To fly in selfish silence, and leave her to be 
massacred !”—-A shuddering seized her at the very thought. 
The gallantry of the Count, too, revolted at the idea. He 
could not consent to turn his back upon a party of helpless 
travellers, and leave them in ignorance of the danger which 
hung over them. | 

“But what is to become of the young lady,” said Caspar, 
“if the alarm is given, and the inn thrown in a tumult? 
What may happen to her in a chance-medley affray ?” 

Here the feelings of the father were aroused; he looked 
upon his lovely, helpless child, and trembled at the chance 
of her falling into the hands of ruffians. 

The daughter, however, thought nothing of herself. ‘“ The 
Princess ! the Princess !—only let the Princess know her 
danger.” She was willing to share it with her. 

At length Caspar interfered with the zeal of a faithful old 
servant. No time was to be lost—the first thing was to get 
the young lady out-of danger. “ Mount the horse,” said he 
to the Count, “take her behind you, and fly! Make for the 
village, rouse the inhabitants, and send assistance. Leave 
me here to give the alarm to the Princess and her people. 
I am an old soldier, and I think we shall be able to stand 
siege until you send us aid.” 

The daughter would again have insisted on staying with 
the Princess— 

“For what?” said old Caspar bluntly. “You could do 
no good—you would be in the way ;—we should have to take 


care of you instead of ourselves.” 


316 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


There was no answering these objections ; the Count seized 
his pistols, and taking his daughter under his arm, moved 
towards the staircase. The young lady paused, stepped back, 


and said, faltering with agitation—“ There is a young cavalier 


with the Princess—her nephew—perhaps he may—” 

“T understand you, Mademoiselle,’ replied old Caspar 
with a significant nod; “not a hair of his head shall suffer 
harm if I can help it.” 

The young lady blushed deeper than ever; she had not 
anticipated being so thoroughly understood by the blunt old 
servant. 

“That is not what I mean,” said she, hesitating. She 
would have added something, or made some explanation, but 
the moments were precious, and her father hurried her away. 

They found their way through the courtyard to the small 
postern gate where the horse stood, fastened to a ring in the 
wall. The Count mounted, took his daughter behind him, 
and they proceeded as quietly as possible in the direction 
which the woman had pointed out. Many a fearful and anx- 
ious look did the daughter cast back upon the gloomy pile; 
the lights which had feebly twinkled through the dusky case- 
ments were one by one disappearing, a sign that the inmates 
were gradually sinking to repose; and she trembled with im- 
patience, lest succor should not arrive until that repose had 
been fatally interrupted. 

They passed silently and safely along the skirts of the 
rocks, protected from observation by their overhanging shad- 
ows. ‘They crossed the brook, and reached the place where 
three white crosses nailed against a tree told of some murder 
that had been committed there. Just as they had reached this 


THE BELATED TRAVELLERS. 317 


ill-omened spot they beheld several men in the gloom coming 
down a craggy defile among the rocks. 

“ Who goes there?” exclaimed a voice. The Count put 
spurs to his horse, but one of the men sprang forward and 
seized the bridle. The horse started back, and reared, and 
had not the young lady clung to her father, she would have 
been thrown off. The Count leaned forward, put a pistol to 
the very head of the ruffian, and fired. The latter fell dead. 
The horse sprang forward. Two or three shots were fired 
which whistled by the fugitives, but only served to augment 
their speed. They reached the village in safety. 

The whole place was soon roused; but such was the awe 
in which the banditti were held, that the inhabitants shrunk at 
the idea of encountering them. A desperate band had for 
some time infested that pass through the mountains, and the 
inn had long been suspected of being one of those horrible 
places where the unsuspicious wayfarer is entrapped and 
silently disposed of. The rich ornaments worn by the slat- 
tern hostess of the inn had excited heavy suspicions. Several 
instances had occurred of small parties of travellers disappear- 
ing mysteriously on that road, who, it was supposed at first, 
had been carried off by the robbers for the purpose of ransom, 
but who had never been heard of more. Such were the tales 
buzzed in the ears of the Count by the villagers, as he en- 
deavored to rouse them to the rescue of the Princess and her 
train from their perilous situation. The daughter seconded 
the exertions of her father with all the eloquence of prayers, 
and tears, and beauty. Every moment that elapsed increased 
her anxiety until it became agonizing. Fortunately there 
was a body of gendarmes resting at the village. A number 


318 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


of the young villagers. volunteered to accompany them, and 
the little army was put in motion. The Count having de- 
posited his daughter in a place of safety, was too much of the 
old soldier not to hasten to the scene of danger. It would be 
difficult to paint the anxious agitation of the young lady while 
awaiting the result. 

The party arrived at the inn just in time. The robbers, 
finding their plans discovered, and the travellers prepared for 
their reception, had become open and furious in their attack. 
The Princess’s party had barricaded themselves in one suite 
of apartments, and repulsed the robbers from the doors and 
windows. Caspar had shown the generalship of a veteran, 
and the nephew of the Princess, the dashing valor of a young 
- soldier. Their ammunition, however, was nearly exhausted, 
and they would have found it difficult to hold out much 
longer, when a discharge from the musketry of the gendarmes 
gave them the joyful tidings of succor. 

A fierce fight ensued, for part of the robbers were sur- 
prised in the inn, and had to stand siege in their turn; while 
their comrades made desperate attempts to relieve them from 
under cover of the neighboring rocks and thickets. 

I cannot pretend to give a minute account of the fight, as 
I have heard it related in a variety of ways. Suffice it to say, 
the robbers were defeated ; several of them killed, and several 
taken prisoners ; which last, together with the people of the 
inn, were either executed or sent to the galleys. 

I picked up these particulars in the course of a journey 
which I made some time after the event had taken place. I 
passed by the very inn. It was then dismantled, excepting 
one wing, in which a body of gendarmes was stationed. They 


—— 


THE BELATED TRAVELLERS. 319 


pointed out to me the shot-holes in the window-frames, the 
walls, and the panels of the doors. There were a number of 
withered limbs dangling from the branches of a neighboring 
tree, and blackening in the air, which I was told were the 
limbs of the robbers who had been slain, and the culprits 
who had been executed. The whole place had a dismal, wild, 
forlorn look. 

_ “ Were any of the Princess’s party killed ?” inquired the 
Englishman. 

“ As far as I can recollect, there were two or three.” 

“ Not the nephew, I trust ?” said the fair Venetian. 

“Oh no: he hastened with the Count to relieve the anx- 
iety of the daughter by the assurances of victory. The 
young lady had been sustained through the interval of sus- 
pense by the very intensity of her feelings. The moment she 
saw her father returning in safety, accompanied by the nephew 
of the Princess, she uttered a ery of rapture, and fainted. 
Happily, however, she soon recovered, and what is more, was 
married shortly afterwards to the young cavalier, and the 
whole party accompanied the old Princess in her pilgrimage 
to Loretto, where her votive offerings may still be seen in the 


treasury of the Santa Casa.” 


Jt would be tedious to follow the devious course of the 
conversation as it wound through a maze of stories of the 
kind, until it was taken up by two other travellers who had 
come under convoy of the procaccio: Mr. Hobbs and Mr. 


Dobbs, a linen-draper and a green-grocer, just returning from 


320 TALES OF A TRAVELLER.’ 


a hasty tour in Greece and the Holy Land. They were full 
of the story of Alderman Popkins. They were astonished 
that the robbers should dare to molest a man of his impor- 
tance on ’Change, he being an eminent dry-salter of Throg- 
morton-street, and a magistrate to boot. 

In fact, the story of the Popkins family was but too true. 
It was attested by too many present to be for a moment 
doubted; and from the contradictory and concordant testi- 
mony of half a score, all eager to relate it, and all talking at 
the same time, the Englishman was enabled to gather the 


following particulars, 


~. ALORA & MHORENS So. 


ADVENTURE OF THE POPKINS FAMILY. 


T was but a few days before, that the carriage of Alderman 
Popkins had driven up to the inn of Terracina. Those 
who have seen an English family-carriage on the continent 
must have remarked the sensation it produces. It is an 
epitome of England; a little morsel of the old Island rolling 
about the world. Every thing about it compact, snug, fin- 
ished, and fitting. The wheels turning on patent axles without 
rattling ; the body, hanging so well on its springs, yielding 
to every motion, yet protecting from every shock ; the ruddy 
faces gaping from the windows—sometimes of a portly old 
citizen, sometimes of a voluminous dowager, and sometimes 
of a fine fresh hoyden just from boarding-school. And then 
the dickeys loaded with well-dressed servants beef-fed and 
bluff; looking down from their heights with contempt on all 
the world around; profoundly ignorant of the country and 
the people, and devoutly certain that every thing not English 
must be wrong. 
Such was the carriage of Alderman Popkins as it made 
its appearance at Terracina. The courier who had preceded 
it to order horses, and who was a Neapolitan, had given a 


magnificent account of the richness and greatness of his mas- 
14* 


322 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


ter; blundering with an Italian’s splendor of imagination 
about the Alderman’s titles and dignities. The host had 
added his usual share of exaggeration; so that by the time 
the Alderman drove up to the door, he was a Milor—Mag- 
nifico—Pincipe—the Lord knows what ! 

The Alderman was advised to take an escort to Fondi and 
Itri, but he refused. It was as much as a man’s life was 
worth, he said, to stop him on the king’s highway : he would 
complain of it to the ambassador at Naples; he would make 
a national affair of it. The Principessa Popkins, a fresh, 
motherly dame, seemed perfectly secure in the protection of 
her husband, so omnipotent a man in the city. The Sig- 
norines Popkins, two fine bouncing girls, looked to their 
brother Tom, who had taken lessons in boxing; and as to 
the dandy himself, he swore no scaramouch of an Italian 
robber would dare to meddle with an Englishman. The 
landlord shrugged his shoulders, and turned out the palms of 
his hands with a true Italian grimace, and the carriage of 
Milor Popkins rolled on. 

They passed through several very suspicious places with- 
out any molestation. The Misses Popkins, who were very 
romantic, and had learnt to draw in water-colors, were en- 
chanted with the savage scenery around; it was so like what 
they had read in’ Mrs. Radcliff’s romances ; they should like, 
of all things, to make sketches. At length the carriage ar- 
rived at a place where the road wound up a long hill. Mrs. 
Popkins had sunk into a sleep; the young ladies were lost in 
the “ Loves of the Angels ;” and the dandy was hectoring 
the postilions from the coach-box. The Alderman got out, as 


he said, to stretch his legs up the hill. It was a long, wind- 


THE POPKINS FAMILY. 323 


ing ascent, and obliged him every now and then to stop and 
blow and wipe his forehead, with many a pish! and phew! 
being rather pursy and short of wind. As the carriage, how- 
ever was far behind him, and moved slowly under the weight 
of so many well-stuffed trunks, and well-stuffed travellers, he 
had pleaty of time to walk at leisure. 

On a jutting point of a rock that overhung the road, nearly 
at the summit of the hill, just where the road began again to 
descend, he saw a solitary man seated, who appeared to be 
tending goats. Alderman Popkins was one of your shrewd 
travellers who always like to be picking up small information 
along the road; so he thought he’d just scramble up to the 
honest man, and have a little talk with him by way of learn- 
ing the news and getting a lesson in Italian. As he drew 
near to the peasant, he did not half like his looks. He was 
partly reclining on the rocks, wrapped in the usual long man- 
tle, which, with his slouched hat, only left a part of a swarthy 
visage, with a keen black eye, a beetle brow, and a fierce mus- 
tache to be seen. He had whistled several times to his dog, 
which was roving about the side of the hill. As the Alderman 
approached, He arose and greeted him. When standing erect, 
he seemed almost gigantic, at least in the eyes of Alderman 
Popkins, who, however, being a short man, might be deceived. 

The latter would gladly now have been back in the car- 
riage, or even on ’Change in London; for he was by no 
means well-pleased with his company. However, he deter- 
mined to put the best face on matters, and was beginning a 
conversation about the state of the weather, the baddishness of 
the crops, and the price of goats in that part of the country, 
when he heard a violent screaming. He ran to the edge of 


324 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


the rock, and looking over, beheld his carriage surrounded by 
robbers. One held down the fat footman, another had the 
dandy by his starched cravat, with a pistol to his head; one 
was rummaging a portmanteau, another rummaging the 
Principessa’s pockets; while the two Misses Popkins were 
screaming from each window of the carriage, and their waiting- 
maid squalling from the dickey. 

Alderman Popkins felt all the ire of the parent and the 
magistrate roused within him. He grasped his cane, and was 
on the point of scrambling down the rocks either to assault 
the robbers or to read the riot act, when he was suddenly 
seized by the arm. It was by his friend the goatherd, whose 
cloak falling open, discovered a belt stuck full of pistols and 
stilettos. In short, he found himself in the clutches of the 
captain of the band, who had stationed himself on the rock to 
look out for travellers and to give notice to his men. 

A sad ransacking took place. Trunks were turned inside 
out, and all the finery and frippery of the Popkins family 
scattered about the road. Such a chaos of Venice beads and 
Roman mosaics, and Paris bonnets of the young ladies, min- 
gled with the Alderman’s nightcaps and lambs’-wool stock- 
ings, and the dandy’s hair-brushes, stays, and starched cravats. 

The gentlemen were eased of their purses and their 
watches, the ladies of their jewels; and the whole party 
were on the point of being carried up into the mountain, 
when fortunately the appearance of soldiers at a distance 
obliged the robbers to make off with the spoils they had se- 
cured, and leave the Popkins family to gather together the 
remnants of their effects, and make the best of their way to 
Fondi. 


THE POPKINS FAMILY. 325 


When safe arrived, the Alderman made a terrible bluster- 
ing at the inn; threatened to complain to the ambassador at 
Naples, and was ready to shake his cane at the whole country. 
The dandy had many stories to tell of his scuffles with the 
brigands, who overpowered him merely by numbers. As to 
the Misses Popkins, they were quite delighted with the ad- 
venture, and were occupied the whole evening in writing it in 
their journals. They declared the captain of the band to be 
a most romantic-looking man, they dared to say some unfor- 
tunate lover or exiled nobleman; and several of the band to 
be very handsome young men—* quite picturesque ! ” 

“In verity,” said mine host of Terracina, “they say the 
captain of the band is un gallant uomo.” 

“A gallant man!” said the Englishman indignantly : 
“Td have your gallant man hanged like a dog!” 

“To dare to meddle with Englishmen!” said Mr. Hobbs. 

“ And such a family as the Popkinses!” said Mr. Dobbs. 

“They ought to come upon the country for damages!” 
said Mr. Hobbs. 

“ Our ambassador should make a complaint to the govern- 
ment of Naples,” said Mr. Dobbs. 

“They should be obliged to drive these rascals out of the 
country,” said Hobbs. 

“And if they did not, we should declare war against 
them,” said Dobbs. . 

“ Pish !—humbug!” muttered the Englishman to him 
self, and walked away. 


The Englishman had been a little wearied by this story, 
14* 


326 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


and by the ultra zeal of his countrymen, and was glad when 
a summons to their supper relieved him from the crowd of 
travellers. He walked out with his Venetian friends and a 
young Frenchman of an interesting demeanor, who had be- 
come sociable with them in the course of the conversation. 
They directed their steps towards the sea, which was lit up 
by the rising moon. 

As they strolled along the beach they came to where a 
party of soldiers were stationed in a circle. They were 
guarding a number of galley slaves, who were permitted to 
refresh themselves in the evening breeze, and sport and roll 
upon the sand. 

The Frenchman paused, and pointed to the group of 
wretches at their sports. “It is difficult,” said he, “ to con- 
ceive a more frightful mass of crime than is here collected. 
Many of these have probably been robbers, such as you have 
heard described. Such is, too often, the career of crime in 
this country. The parricide, the fratricide, the infanticide, 
the miscreant of every kind, first flies from. justice and turns 
mountain bandit ; and then, when wearied of a life of danger, 
becomes traitor to his brother desperadoes ; betrays them to 
punishment, and thus buys a commutation of his own sentence 
from death to the galleys; happy in the privilege of wallow- 
ing on the shore an hour a day, in this mere state of animal 
enjoyment.”’ | 

The fair Venetian shuddered as she cast a look at. the 
horde of wretches at their evening amusement.  “ They 
seemed,” she said, “like so many serpents writhing to- 
gether.” And yet the idea that some of them had been 
robbers, those formidable beings that haunted her imagina- 


THE POPKINS FAMILY. $27 


tion, made her still cast another fearful glance, as we con- 
template some terrible beast of prey, with a degree of awe 
and horror, even though caged and chained. 

The conversation reverted to the tales of banditti which 
they had heard at the inn. The Englishman condemned some 
of them as fabrications, others as exaggerations. As to the 
story of the improvisatore, he pronounced it a mere piece 
of romance, originating in the heated brain of the narrator. 

*¢ And yet,” said the Frenchman, “ there is so much ro- 
mance about the real life of those beings, and about the sin- 
gular country they infest, that it is hard to tell what to re- 
ject on the ground of improbability. I have had an adven- 
ture happen to myself which gave me an opportunity of 
getting some insight into their manners and habits, which I 
found altogether out of the common run of existence.” 

There was an air of mingled frankness and modesty about 
the Frenchman which had gained the good will of the whole 
party, not even excepting the Englishman. They all eagerly 
inquired after the particulars of the circumstances he al- 
Iuded to, and as they strolled slowly up and down the sea- 
shore, he related the following adventure. 


THE PAINTER’S ADVENTURE. 


AM an historical painter by profession, and resided for 

some time in the family of a foreign Prince at his villa, 
about fifteen miles from Rome, among some of the most in- 
teresting scenery of Italy. It is situated on the heights of 
ancient Tusculum. In its neighborhood are the ruins of the 
villas of Cicero, Scylla, Lucullus, Rufinus, and other illus- 
trious Romans, who sought refuge here occasionally from 
their toils, in the bosom of a soft and luxurious repose. 
From the midst of delightful bowers, refreshed by the pure 
mountain breeze, the eye looks over a romantic landscape 
full of poetical and historical associations. The Albanian 
mountains ; Tivoli, once the favorite residence of Horace and 
Meczenas ; the vast, deserted, melancholy Campagna, with the 
Tiber winding through it, and St. Peter’s dome swelling in 
the midst, the monument, as it were, over the grave of ancient 
Rome. 

I assisted the Prince in researches which he was making 
among the classic ruins of his vicinity: his exertions were 
highly successful. Many wrecks of admirable statues and 
fragments of exquisite sculpture were dug up; monuments 
of the taste and magnificence that reigned in the ancient Tus- 


THE PAINTERS ADVENTURE. 329 


culan abodes. He had studded his villa and its grounds with 
statues, relievos, vases, and sarcophagi, thus retrieved from 
the bosom of the earth. 

The mode of life pursued at the villa was delightfully 
serene, diversified by interesting occupations and elegant 
leisure. Every one passed the day according to his pleasure 
or pursuits; and we all assembled in a cheerful dinner party 
at sunset. 

It was on the fourth of November, a beautiful serene day, 
that we had assembled in the saloon at the sound of the first 
dinner-bell. The family were surprised at the absence of the 
Prince’s confessor. They waited for him in vain, and at length 
placed themselves at table. They at first attributed his ab- 
sence to his having prolonged his customary walk; and the 
early part of the dinner passed without any uneasiness. 
When the dessert was served, however, without his making 
his appearance, they began to feel anxious. They feared he 
might have been taken ill in some alley of the woods, or 
might have fallen into the hands of robbers. Not far from 
the villa, with the interval of a small valley, rose the moun- 
tains of the Abruzzi, the strong-hold of banditti. Indeed, the 
neighborhood had for some time past been infested by them ; 
and Barbone, a notorious bandit chief, had often been met 
prowling about the solitudes of Tusculum. The daring en- 
terprises of these ruffians were well known: the objects of 
their cupidity or vengeance were insecure even in palaces. 
As yet they had respected the possessions of the Prince ; but 
the idea of such dangerous spirits hovering about the neigh- 
borhood was sufficient to occasion alarm. 


The fears of the company increased as evening closed in. 


330 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


The Prince ordered out forest guards and domestics with 
flambeaux to search for the confessor. They had not de- 

parted long when a slight noise was heard in the corridor of 
- the ground-floor. The family were dining on the first floor, » 
and the remaining domestics were occupied in attendance. 
There was no one on the ground-floor at this moment but the 
housekeeper, the laundress, and three field laborers, who were 
yesting themselves, and conversing with the women. 

I heard the noise from below, and presuming it to be oce- 
casioned by the return of the absentee, I left the table and 
hastened down stairs, eager to gain intelligence that might 
relieve the anxiety of the Prince and Princess. I had scarcely 
reached the last step, when I beheld before me a man dressed 
as a bandit; a carbine in his hand, and a stiletto and pistols 
in his belt. His countenance had a mingled expression of 
ferocity and trepidation: he sprang upon me, and exclaimed 
exultingly, “ Ecco il principe ! ” 

I saw at once into what hands I had fallen, but endeavored 
to summon up coolness and presence of mind. A glance 
towards the lower end of the corridor showed me several 
ruffians, clothed and armed in the same manner with the one 
who had seized me. They were guarding the two females 
and the field laborers. The robber, who held me firmly by 
the collar, demanded repeatedly whether or not I were the 
Prince: his object evidently was to carry off the Prince, and 
extort an immense ransom. He was enraged at receiving 
none but vague replies, for I felt the importance of misleading 
him. 

A sudden thought struck me how I might extricate my- 


self from his clutches. I was unarmed, it is true, but I was 


THE PAINTER’S ADVENTURE. sat 


vigorous. His companions were at a distance. By a sudden 
exertion I might wrest myself from him, and spring up the 
staircase, whither he would not dare to follow me singly. 
The idea was put in practice as soon as conceived. The 
rufhian’s throat was bare; with my right hand I seized him by 
it, with my left hand I grasped the arm which held the car- 
bine. The suddenness of my attack took him completely 
unawares, and the strangling nature of my grasp paralyzed 
him. He choked and faltered. I felt his hand relaxing its 
hold, and was on the point of jerking myself away, and dart- 
ing up the staircase, before he could recover himself, when I 
was suddenly seized by some one from behind. 

I had to let go my grasp. The bandit, once released, fell 
upon me with fury, and gave me several blows with the butt 
end of his carbine, one of which wounded me severely in the 
forehead and covered me with blood. He took advantage of 
my being stunned to rifle me of my watch, and whatever 
valuables I had about my person. 

When I recovered from the effect of the blow, I heard the 
voice of the chief of the banditti, who exclaimed—* Quello e 
il principe; siamo contente; andiamo!” (It is the Prince; 
enough ; let us be off.) The band immediately closed around 
me and dragged me out of the palace, bearing off the three 
laborers likewise. 

I had no hat on, and the blood flowed from my wound ; 
I managed to stanch it, however, with my pocket-handker- 
chief, which I bound round my forehead. The captain of the 
band conducted me in triumph, supposing me to be the Prince. 
We had gone some distance before he learnt his mistake from 


one of the laborers. His rage was terrible. It was too late 


352 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


to return to the villa and endeavor to retrieve his error, for 
by this time the alarm must have been given, and every one in 
arms. He darted at mea ferocious look—swore I had deceived 
him, and caused him to miss his fortune—and told me to pre- 
pare for death. The rest of the robbers were equally furious. 
I saw their hands upon their poniards, and I knew that death 
was seldom an empty threat with these rufhans. The laborers 
saw the peril into which their information had betrayed me 
and eagerly assured the captain that I was a man for whom the 
Prince would pay a great ransom. This produced a pause. 
For my part, I cannot say that I had been much dismayed by 
their menaces. I mean not to make any boast of courage; 
but I have been so schooled to hardship during the late reyo- 
lutions ; and have beheld death around me in so many perilous 
and disastrous scenes, that I have become in some measure 
callous to its terrors. The frequent hazard of life makes a 
man at length as reckless of it as a gambler of his money. 
To their threat of death, I replied, “ that the sooner it was ex- 
ecuted the better.” This reply seemed to astonish the captain ; 
and the prospect of ransom held out by the laborers had, no 
doubt, a still greater effect on him. He considered for a mo- 
ment, assumed a calmer manner, and made a sign to his com- 
panions, who had remained waiting for my death-warrant. 
“Forward!” said he; “we will see about this matter by 
and by!” 

We descended rapidly towards the road of La Molara, 
which leads to Rocca Priori. In the midst of this road is a 
solitary inn. ‘The captain ordered the troop to halt at the dis- 
tance of a pistol-shot from it, and enjoined profound silence. 


He approached the threshold alone, with noiseless steps. He 


THE PAINTER’S ADVENTURE. 333 


“examined the outside of the door very narrowly, and then re- 
turning precipitately, made a sign for the troop to continue its 
march in silence. It has since been ascertained, that this was 
one of those infamous inns which are the secret resorts of ban- 
ditti. The innkeeper had an understanding with the captain 
as he most probably had with the chiefs of the different bands. 
When any of the patroles and gens-d’armes were quartered at 
his house, the brigands were warned of it by a preconcerted 
signal on the door; when there was no such signal, they might 
enter with safety, and be sure of welcome. 

After pursuing our road a little further, we struck off to- 
wards the woody mountains which envelope Rocca Priori. 
Our march was long and painful; with many circuits and 
windings: at length we clambered a steep ascent, covered 
with a thick forest; and when we had reached the centre, I 
was told to seat myself on the ground. No sooner had I done 
so than, at a sign from their chief, the robbers surrounded me, 
and spreading their great cloaks from one to the other, formed 
a kind of pavilion of mantles, to which their bodies might be 
said to serve as columns. ' The captain then struck a light, and 
a flambeau was lit immediately. The mantles were extended 
to prevent the light of the flambeau from being seen through 
the forest. Anxious as was my situation, I could not look 
round upon this screen of dusky drapery, relieved by the 
bright colors of the robbers’ garments, the gleaming of their 
weapons, and the variety of strong marked countenances, lit 
up by the flambeau, without admiring the picturesque effect 
of the scene. It was quite theatrical. 

The captain now held an inkhorn, and giving me pen and 
paper, ordered me to write what he should dictate. I obeyed. 


334 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


It was a demand, couched in the style of robber eloquence, 
“that the Prince should send three thousand dollars for 
my ransom; or that my death should be the consequence of 
a refusal.” 

I knew enough of the desperate character of these beings 
to feel assured this was not an idle menace. ‘Their only mode 
of insuring attention to their demands is to make the infliction. 
of the penalty inevitable. I saw at once, however, that the 
demand was preposterous, and made in improper language. 

I told the captain so, and assured him that so extravagant 
a sum would never be granted.—* That I was neither a friend 
nor relative of the Prince but a mere artist, employed to 
execute certain paintings. That I had nothing to offer as a 
ransom, but the price of my labors; if this were not sufh- 
cient, my life was at their disposal; it was a thing on which I 
set but little value.” 

I was the more hardy in my reply, because I saw that 
coolness and hardihood had an effect upon the robbers. It is 
true, as I finished speaking, the captain laid his hand upon his 
stiletto; but he restrained himself, and snatching the letter, 
folded it, and ordered me, in a peremptory tone, to address it 
to the Prince. He then dispatched one of the laborers with 
it to Tusculum, who promised to return with all possible 
speed. 

The robbers now prepared themselves for sleep, and I was 
told that I might do the same.. They spread their great cloaks 
on the ground, and lay down around me. One was stationed 
at a little distance to keep watch, and was relieved every two 
hours. ‘The strangeness and wildness of this mountain bivouac 


among lawless beings, whose hands seemed ever ready to 


THE PAINTER’S ADVENTURE. 835 


grasp the stiletto, and with whom life was so trivial and in- 
secure, was enough to banish repose. The coldness of the 
earth, and of the dew, however, had a still greater effect than 
mental causes in disturbing my rest. The airs wafted to these 
mountains from the distant Mediterranean, diffused a great 
chilliness as the night advanced. An expedient suggested it- 
self. I called one of my fellow-prisoners, the laborers, and 
made him lie down beside me. Whenever one of my limbs 
became chilled, [ approached it to the robust limb of my 
neighbor, and borrowed some of his warmth. In this way I 
was able to obtain a little sleep. 

Day at length dawned, and I was roused from my slumber 
by the voice of the chieftain. He desired me to rise and fol- 
low him.- I obeyed. On considering his physiognomy atten- 
tively, it appeared a little softened. He even assisted me in 
scrambling up the steep forest, among rocks and brambles. 
Habit had made him a vigorous mountaineer ; but I found it 
excessively toilsome to climb these rugged heights. We 
arrived at length at the summit of the mountain. 

Here it was that I felt all the enthusiasm of my art sudden- 
ly awakened ; and | forgot in an instant all my perils and 
fatigues at this magnificent view of the sunrise in the midst of 
the mountains of the Abruzzi. It was on these heights that 
Hannibal first pitched his camp, and pointed out Rome to his 
followers. The eye embraces a vast extent of country. The 
minor height of Tusculum, with its villas and its sacred ruins, 
lie below; the Sabine hills and the Albanian mountains stretch 
on either hand; and beyond Tusculum and Frascati spreads 


out the immense Campagna, with its lines of tombs, and here 


336 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


and there a broken aqueduct stretching across it, and the 
towers and domes of the eternal city in the midst. 

Fancy this scene lit up by the glories of a rising sun, and 
bursting upon my sight as I looked forth from among the 
majestic forests of the Abruzzi. Fancy, too, the savage fore- 
ground, made still more savage by groups of banditti, armed 
and dressed in their wild picturesque manner, and you will 
not wonder that the enthusiasm of a painter for a moment 
overpowered all his other feelings. 

The banditti were astonished at my admiration of a scene 
which familiarity had made so common in their eyes. I took 
advantage of their halting at this spot, drew forth a quire of 
drawing-paper, and began to sketch the features of the land- 
scape. The height on which I was seated was wild and soli- 
tary, separated from the ridge of Tusculum by a valley nearly 
three miles wide, though the distance appeared less from the 
purity of the atmosphere. This height was one of the favorite 
retreats of the banditti, commanding a look-out over the coun- 
try ; while at the same time it was covered with forests, and 
distant from the populous haunts of men. 

While I was sketching, my attention was called off for a 
moment by the cries of birds, and the bleatings of sheep. I 
looked around, but could see nothing of the animals which 
uttered them. They were repeated, and appeared to come 
from the summits of the trees. On looking more narrowly, I 
perceived six of the robbers perched in the tops of oaks, which 
grew on the breezy crest of the mountain, and commanded an 
uninterrupted prospect. They were keeping a look-out like 
so many vultures; casting their eyes into the depths of the 


valley below us; communicating with each other by signs, 


-_. 


THE PAINTER’S ADVENTURE. aot 


or holding discourse in sounds which might be mistaken 
by the wayfarer for the cries of hawks and crows, or the 
bleating of the mountain flocks. After they had recon- 
noitered the neighborhood, and finished their singular dis- 
course, they descended from their airy perch, and returned to 
their prisoners. The captain posted three of them at three 
naked sides of the mountain, while he remained to guard us 
with what appeared his most trusty companion. 

I had my book of sketches in my hand; he requested to 
see it, and after having run his eye over it, expressed. himself 
convinced of the truth of my assertion that I was a painter. 
I thought I saw a gleam of good feeling dawning in him, and 
determined to avail myself of it. I knew that the worst of 
men have their good points and their accessible sides, if one 
would but study them carefully. Indeed, there is a singular 
mixture in the character of the Italian robber. With reckless 
ferocity he often mingles traits of kindness and good-humor. 
He is not always radically bad; but driven to his course of life 
by some unpremeditated crime, the effect of those sudden 
bursts of passion to which the Italian temperament is prone. 
This has compelled him to take to the mountains, or, as it is 
technically termed among them, “ andare in campagna.” He 
has become a robber by profession ; but, like a soldier, when 
not in action he can lay aside his weapon and his fierceness, 
and become like other men. 

I took occasion, from the observations of the captain on my 
sketchings, to fall into conversation with him, and found him 
sociable and communicative. By degrees I became complete- 
ly at my ease with him. I had fancied I perceived about him 


a degree of self-love, which I determined to make use of. I 
15 


338 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


assumed an air of careless frankness, and told him, that, as an 
artist, I pretended to the power of judging of the physiog- 
nomy; that I thought I perceived something in his features 
and demeanor which announced him worthy of higher for- 
tunes; that he was not formed to exercise the profession to 
which he had abandoned himself; that he had talents and 
qualities fitted for a nobler sphere of action ; that he had but 
to change his course of life, and, in a legitimate career, the 
same courage and endowments which now made him an ob- 
ject of terror, would assure him the applause and admiration 
of society. 

I had not mistaken my man; my discourse both touched and ex- 
cited him. He seized my 
hand, pressed it, and re- 
plied with strong emotion 
—‘‘ You have guessed the 
truth ; you have judged of 
me rightly.” He remained 
for a moment silent; then 
with a kind of effort, he 
resumed—‘‘I will tell you 
some particulars of my life, 
and you will perceive that it | 
was the oppression of others, a 
rather than my own crimes, 
which drove me to the moun- » 
tains. I sought to serve my 
fellow-men, and they have 
persecuted me from among 
them.” We seated ourselves 


on the grass, and the rob- 


ber gave me the following 


anecdotes of his history. 


.* THE STORY OF THE BANDIT CHIEFTAIN. 


AM a native of the village of Prossedi. My father was 

easy enough in circumstances, and we lived peaceably and 
independently, cultivating our fields. All went on well with 
us, until a new chief of the Sbirri was sent to our village to 
take command of the police. He was an arbitrary fellow, 
prying into every thing, and practising all sorts of vexations 
and oppressions in the discharge of his office. I was at that 
time eighteen years of age, and had a natural love of justice 
and good neighborhood. I had also a little education, and 
knew something of history, so as to be able to judge a little 
of men and their actions. All this inspired me with hatred 
for this paltry despot. My own family, also, became the ob- 
ject of his suspicion or dislike, and felt more than once the 
arbitrary abuse of his power. ‘These things worked together 
in my mind, and | gasped after vengeance. My character was 
always ardent and energetic, and, acted upon by the love of 
justice, determined me, by one blow, to rid the country of 
the tyrant. 
Full of my project, | rose one morning before peep of day, 
and concealing a stiletto under my waistcoat—here you see 
it !—(and he drew forth a long keen poniard) I lay in wait for 


340 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


him in the outskirts of the village. I knew all his haunts, 
and his habit of making his rounds and prowling about like a 
wolf in the gray of the morning. At length I met him, and 
attacked him with fury. He was armed, but I took him 
unawares, and was full of youth and vigor. I gave him re- 
peated blows to make sure work, and laid him lifeless at my 
feet. 

When I was satisfied that I had done for him, I returned 
with all haste to the village, but had the ill luck to meet two 
of the Sbirri as I entered it. They accosted me, and asked if 
I had seen their chief. I assumed an air of tranquillity, and 
told them I had not. They continued on their way, and with- 
in a few hours brought back the dead body to Prossedi. 
Their suspicions of me being already awakened, I was arrested 
and thrown into prison. Here I lay several weeks, when the 
Prince, who was Seigneur of Prossedi, directed judicial pro- 
ceedings against me. Iwas brought to trial, and a witness 
was produced, who pretended to have seen me flying with 
precipitation not far from the bleeding body; and so I was 
condemned to the galleys for thirty years. 

“ Curse on such laws!” vociferated the bandit, foaming 
with rage: “Curse on such a government! and ten thousand 
curses on the Prince who caused me to be adjudged so rigor- 
ously, while so many other Roman Princes harbor and _ pro- 
tect assassins a thousand times more culpable! What had I 
done but what was inspired by a love of justice and my coun- 
try? Why was my act more culpable than that of ‘Brutus, 
when he sacrificed Caesar to the cause of liberty and justice ?” 

There was something at once both lofty and ludicrous in 


the rhapsody of this robber chief, thus associating himself with 


THE BANDIT CHIEFTAIN. d41 
one of the great names of antiquity. It showed, however, 
that he had at least the merit of knowing the remarkable facts 
in the history of his country. He became more calm, and re- 
sumed his narrative. 

I was conducted to Civita Vecchia in fetters. My heart 
was burning with rage. I had been married scarce six months 
to a woman whom I passionately loved, and who was preg- 
nant. My family was in despair. For a long time I made 
unsuccessful efforts to break my chain. At length I found a 
morsel of iron, which I hid carefully, and endeavored, with a 
pointed flint, to fashion it into a kind of file. I occupied myself 
in this work during the night-time, and when it was finished, I 
made out, after a long time, to sever one of the rings of my 
chain. My flight was successful. 

I wandered for several weeks in the mountains which sur- 
round Prossedi, and found means to inform my wife of the 
place where 1 was concealed. She came often to see me. I 
had determined to put myself at the head of an armed band. 
She endeavored, for a long time, to dissuade me, but finding 
my resolution fixed, she at length united in my project of 
vengeance, and brought me, herself, my poniard. By her 
means I communicated with several brave fellows of the 
neighboring villages, whom I knew to be ready to take to the 
mountains, and only panting for an opportunity to exercise 
their daring spirits. We soon formed a combination, pro- 
cured arms, and we have had ample opportunities of re- 
venging ourselves for the wrongs and injuries which most of 
us have suffered. Every thing has succeeded with us until 
now, and had it not been for our blunder in mistaking you for 


the Prince, our fortunes would have been made. 
€ 


342 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


. Here the robber concluded his story. He had talked him- 
self into complete companionship, and assured me he no 
longer bore me any grudge for the error of which I had been 
the innocent cause. Heeven professed a kindness for me, and 
wished me to remain some time with them. He promised to 
give me a sight of certain grottos which they occupied beyond 
Villetri, and whither they resorted during the intervals of their 
expeditions. 

He assured me that they led a jovial life there; had plenty 
of good cheer; slept on beds of moss; and were waited 
upon by young and beautiful females, whom I might take for 
models. 

I confess I felt my curiosity roused by his descriptions of 
the grottos and their inhabitants: they realized those scenes 
in robber story which I had always looked upon as mere 
creations of the fancy. I should gladly. have accepted his in- 
vitation, and paid a visit to these caverns, could I have felt 
more secure in my company. 

I began to find my situation less painful. I had evidently 
propitiated the good will of the chieftain, and hoped that he 
might release me for a moderate ransom. A new alarm, 
however, awaited me. While the captain was looking out 
with impatience for the return of the messenger, who had been 
sent to the Prince, the sentinel posted on the side of the 
mountain facing the plain of La Molara came running towards 
us. “ We are betrayed!” exclaimed he. “The police of 
Frascati are after us, A party of carabineers have just 
stopped at the inn below the mountain.” Then, laying his 
hand on his stiletto, he swore, with a terrible oath, that if 


~ 
+ 
w 
“ul 


THE PAINTER’S ADVENTURE. 343 


they made the least movement towards the mountain, my life 
and the lives of my fellow-prisoners should answer for it. 

The chieftain resumed all his ferocity of demeanor, and 
approved of what his companion said; but when the latter 
had returned to his post, he turned to me with a softened air : 
“TI must act as chief,’ said he, “and humor my dangerous 
subalterns. It is a law with us to kill our prisoners rather 
than suffer them to be rescued; but do not be alarmed. In 
case we are surprised, keep by me; fly with us, and I will 
consider myself responsible for your life.” 

There was nothing very consolatory in this arrangement, 
which would have placed me between two dangers. I scarcely 
knew, in case of flight, from which I should have the most to 
apprehend, the carbines of the pursuers, or the stilettos of the 
pursued. I remained ‘silent, however, and endeavored to 
maintain a look of tranquillity. 

For an hour was I kept in this state of peril and anxiety. 
The robbers, crouching among their leafy coverts, kept an 
eagle watch upon the carabineers below, as they loitered about 
the inn; sometimes lolling about the portal; sometimes 
disappearing for several minutes; then sallying out, examin- 
ing their weapons, pointing in different directions, and appar- 
ently asking questions about the neighborhood. Not a move- 
ment, a gesture, was lost upon the keen eyes of the brigands. 
At length we were relieved from our apprehensions. The 
carabineers having finished their refreshment, seized their 
arms,.continued along the valley towards the great road, and 
gradually left the mountain behind them. “I felt almost cer- 
tain,” said the chief, “that they could not be sent after us. 
They know too well how prisoners have fared in our hands on 


344 “TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


similar occasions. Our laws in this respect are inflexible, and 
are necessary for our safety. If we once flinched from them, 
there would no longer be such a thing as a ransom to be pro- 
cured.” 

There were no signs yet of the messenger’s return. I was 
preparing to resume my sketching, when the captain drew a 
quire of paper from his knapsack. “Come,” said he, laugh- 
ing, “ you are a painter,—take my likeness. The leaves of 
your portfolio are small,—draw it on this.” I gladly con- 
sented, for it was a study that seldom presents itself to a 
painter. I recollected that Salvator Rosa in his youth had 
voluntarily sojourned for a time among the banditti of Cala- 
bria, and had filled his mind with the savage scenery and sav- 
age associates by which he was surrounded. I seized my pencil 
with enthusiasm at the thought. I found the captain the most 
docile of subjects, and, after various shiftings of position, 
placed him in an attitude to my mind. 

Picture to yourself a stern muscular figure, in fanciful 
bandit costume; with pistols and poniard in belt; his brawny 
neck bare; a handkerchief loosely thrown around it, and the 
two ends in front strung with rings of all kinds, the spoils of 
travellers ; relics and medals hanging on his breast ; his hat 
decorated with various colored ribbons; his vest and short 
breeches of bright colors, and finely embroidered ; his legs in 
buskins or leggins. ancy him on a mountain height, among 
wild rocks and rugged oaks, leaning on his carbine, as if 
meditating some exploit; while far below are beheld villages 
and villas, the scenes of his maraudings, with the wide Cam- 
pagna dimly extending in the distance. 

The robber was pleased with the sketch, and seemed to 


THE PAINTER’S ADVENTURE. 345 


admire himself upon paper. I had scarcely finished, when the 
laborer arrived who had been sent for my ransom. He had 
reached 'Tusculum two hours after midnight. He had brought 
me a letter from the Prince, who was in bed at the time of his 
arrival. As I had predicted, he treated the demand as ex- 
travagant, but offered five hundred dollars for my ransom. 
Having no money by him at the moment, he had sent a note 
for the amount, payable to whomsoever should conduct me 
safe and sound to Rome. I presented the note of hand to the 
chieftain; he received it with a shrug. “O what use are 
notes of hand to us?” said he. “ Who can we send with you 
to Rome to receive it? Weare all marked men; known 
and described at every gate, and military post, and village 
church door. No; we must have gold and silver; let the 
sum be paid in cash, and you shall be restored to liberty.” 

The captain again placed a sheet of paper before me to 
communicate his determination to the Prince. When I had 
finished the letter, and took the sheet from the quire, I found 
on the opposite side of it the portrait which I had just been 
tracing. I was about to tear it off and give it to the chief. 

“ Hold!” said he, “let it go to Rome; let them see what 
kind of a looking fellow Iam. Perhaps the Prince and his 
friends may form as good an opinion of me from my face as 
you have done.” 

This was said sportively, yet it was evident there was 
vanity lurking at the bottom. Even this wary, distrustful 
chief of banditti, forgot for a moment his usual foresight and 
precaution, in the common wish to be admired. He never 
reflected what use might be made of this portrait in his pursuit 


and conviction. 
15* 


346 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


The letter was folded and directed, and the messenger 
departed again for Tusculum. It was now eleven o’clock in 
the morning, and as yet we had eaten nothing. In spite of all 
my anxiety, I began to feel a craving appetite. I was glad 
therefore to hear the captain talk something about eating. 
He observed that for three days and nights they had been 
lurking about among rocks and woods, meditating their expe- 
dition to Tusculum, during which time all their provisions 
had been exhausted. He should now take measures to pro- 
cure a supply. Leaving me, therefore, in charge of his com. 
rade, in whom he appeared to have implicit confidence, he 
departed, assuring me that in less than two hours I should 
make a good dinner. Where it was to come from was an 
enigma to me, though it was evident these beings had their 
secret friends and agents throughout the country 

Indeed the inhabitants of these mountains, and of the 
valleys which they embosom, are a rude, half-civilized set. 
The towns and villages among the forests of the Abruzzi, shut 
up from the rest of the world, are almost like savage dens. 
It is wonderful that such rude abodes, so little known and 
visited, should be embosomed in the midst of one of the most 
travelled and civilized countries of Europe. Among these 
regions the robber prowls unmolested ; not a mountaineer 
hesitates to give him secret harbor and assistance. The 
shepherds, however, who tend their flocks among the moun- 
tains, are the favorite emissaries of the robbers, when they 
would send messages down to the valleys either for ransom 
or supplies. 

The shepherds of the Abruzzi are as wild as the scenes 


they frequent. They are clad in a rude garb of black or 


THE PAINTER’S ADVENTURE. 347 


brown sheep-skin; they have high conical hats, and coarse 
sandals of cloth bound around their legs with thongs, similar 
to those worn by the robbers. They carry long staves, on 
which, as they lean, they form picturesque objects in. the 
lonely landscape, and they are followed by their ever-constant 
companion, the dog. They are a curious, questioning set, 
glad at any time to relieve the monotony of their solitude by 
the conversation of the passer-by ; and the dog will lend an 
attentive ear, and put on as sagacious and inquisitive a look 
as his master. 

But I am wandering from my story. I was now left 
alone with one of the robbers, the confidential companion of 
the chief. He was the youngest and most vigorous of the 
band; and though his countenance had something of that 
dissolute fierceness which seems natural to this desperate, law- 
less mode of life, yet there were traces of manly beauty about 
it. Asan artist I could not but admire it. I had remarked 
in him an air of abstraction and reverie, and at times a move- 
ment of inward suffering and impatience. He now sat on 
the ground, his elbows on his knees, his head resting between 
his clenched fists, and his eyes fixed on the earth with an 
expression of sadness and bitter rumination. I had grown 
familiar with him from repeated conversations, and had 
found him superior in mind to the rest of the band. I was 
anxious to seize any opportunity of sounding the feelings of 
these singular beings. I fancied I read in the countenance of 
this one traces of self-condemnation and remorse; and the 
ease with which I had drawn forth the confidence of the 
chieftain, encouraged me to hope the same with his follower. 

After a little preliminary conversation, I ventured to ask 


848 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


him if he did not feel regret at having abandoned his family, 
and taken to this dangerous profession. “I feel,” replied he, 
“but one regret, and that will end only with my life.” 

As he said this, he pressed his clenched fists upon his 
bosom, drew his breath through his set teeth, and added, with 
a deep emotion, “I have something within here that stifles 
me; it is like a burning iron consuming my very heart. I 
could tell you a miserable story—but not now—another 
time.” 

He relapsed into his former position, and sat with his 
head between his hands, muttering to himself in broken 
ejaculations, and what appeared at times to be curses and 
maledictions. I saw he was not in a mood to be disturbed, 
so I left him to himself. In a little while the exhaustion of 
his feelings, and probably the fatigues he had undergone in 
this expedition, began to produce drowsiness. He struggled 
with it for a time, but the warmth and stillness of mid-day 
made it irresistible, and he at length stretched himself upon 
the herbage and fell asleep. ~ 

I now beheld a chance of escape within my reach. My 
guard lay before me at my mercy. His vigorous limbs 
relaxed by sleep—his bosom open for the blow—his carbine 
slipped from his nerveless grasp, and lying by his side—his 
stiletto half out of the pocket in which it was usually carried. 
Two only of his comrades were in sight, and those at a con- 
siderable distance on the edge of the mountain, their backs 
turned to us, and their attention occupied in keeping a lookout 
upon the plain. Through a strip of intervening forest, and 
at the foot of a steep descent, I beheld the village of Roeca 
Priori. To have secured the carbine of the sleeping brigand ; 


THE PAINTER’S ADVENTURE. 349 


to have seized upon his poniard, and have plunged it in his 
heart, would have been the work of an instant. Should he 
die without noise, I might dart through the forest, and down 
to Rocca Priori before my flight might be discovered. In 
ease of alarm, I should still have a fair start of the robbers, 
and a chance of getting beyond the reach of their shot. 

Here then was an opportunity for both escape and 
vengeance ; perilous indeed, but powerfully tempting. Had 
my situation been more critical I could not have resisted it. 
I reflected, however, for a moment. The attempt, if success- 
ful, would be followed by the sacrifice of my two fellow- 
prisoners, who were sleeping profoundly, and could not be 
awakened in time to escape. The laborer who had gone after 
the ransom might also fall a victim to the rage of the robbers, 
without the money which he brought being saved. Besides, 
the conduct of the chief towards me made me feel confident 
of speedy deliverance. These reflections overcame the first 
powerful impulse, and I calmed the turbulent agitation which 
it had awakened. 

I again took out my materials for drawing, and amused 
myself with sketching the magnificent prospect. It was 
now about noon, and every thing had sunk into repose, like 
the sleeping bandit before me. The noontide stillness that 
reigned over these mountains, the vast landscape below, 
gleaming with distant towns, and dotted with various habita- 
tions and signs of life, yet all so silent, had a powerful effect: 
upon my mind. The intermediate valleys, too, which lie 
among the mountains, have a peculiar air of solitude. Few 
sounds are heard at mid-day to break the quiet of the scene. 


Sometimes the whistle of a solitary muleteer, lagging with 


.5* 


3850 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


his lazy animal along the road which winds through the cen- 
tre of the valley ; sometimes the faint piping of a shepherds 
reed from the side of the mountain, or sometimes the bell of 
an ass slowly pacing along, followed by a monk with bare 
feet, and bare, shining head, and carrying provisions to his 
convent. 

I had continued to sketch for some time among my sleep- 
ing companions, when at length I saw the captain of the band 
approaching, followed by a peasant leading a mule, on which 
was a well-filled sack. I at first apprehended that this was 
some new prey fallen into the hands of the robber; but the 
contented look of the peasant soon relieved me, and I was 
rejoiced to hear that it was our promised repast. The 
brigands now came running from the three sides of the moun- 
tain, having the quick scent of vultures. Every one busied 
himself in unloading the mule, and relieving the sack of its 
contents. 

The first thing that made its appearance was an enormous 
ham, of a color and plumpness that would have inspired the 
pencil of Teniers; it was followed by a large cheese, a bag 
of boiled chestnuts, a little barrel of wine, and a quantity of 
good household bread. Every thing was arranged on the 
grass with a degree of symmetry ; and the captain, present- 
ing me with his knife, requested me to help myself. We 
all seated ourselves around the viands, and nothing was heard 
for a time but the sound of vigorous mastication, or the 
gurgling of the barrel of wine as it revolved briskly about 
the circle. My long fasting, and mountain air and exercise, 
had given me a keen appetite; and never did repast appear 
to me more excellent or picturesque. 


THE PAINTER’S ADVENTURE. 351 


From time to time one of the band was despatched to 
keep a look-out upon the plain. No enemy was at hand, and 
the dinner was undisturbed. The peasant received nearly 
three times the value of his provisions, and set off down the 
mountain ‘highly satisfied with his bargain. I felt invigorated 
by the hearty meal I had made, and notwithstanding that the 
wound I had received the evening before was painful, yet I 
could not but feel extremely interested and gratified by the 
singular scenes continually presented tome. Every thing was 
picturesque about these wild beings and their haunts. ‘Their 
bivouacs ; their groups on guard; their indolent noontide 
repose on the mountain-brow ; their rude repast on the herb- 
age among rocks and trees; every thing presented a study 
for a painter: but it was towards the approach of evening 
that I felt the highest enthusiasm awakened. 

The setting sun, declining beyond the vast Campagna, 
shed its rich yellow beams on the woody summit of the 
Abruzzi. Several mountains crowned with snow shone 
brilliantly in the distance, contrasting their brightness with 
others, which, thrown into shade, assumed deep tints of 
purple and violet. As the evening advanced, the landscape 
darkened into a sterner character. The immense solitude 
around ; the wild mountains broken into rocks and precipices, 
intermingled with vast oaks, corks and chestnuts; and the 
groups of banditti in the foreground, reminded me of the 
savage scenes of Salvator Rosa. 

To beguile the time, the captain proposed to his connieteine 
to spread before me their jewels and cameos, as I must doubt- 
less be a judge of such articles, and able to form an estimate 
of their value. He set the example, the others followed it; 


352 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


and in a few moments I saw the grass before me sparkling 
with jewels and gems that would have delighted the eyes of an 
antiquary or a fine lady. 

Among them were several precious jewels, and antique 
intaglios and cameos of great value; the spoils, doubtless, of 
travellers of distinction. I found that they were in the habit 
of selling their booty in the frontier towns; but as these, in 
general, were thinly and poorly peopled, and little frequented 
by travellers, they could offer no market for such valuable 
articles of taste and luxury. I suggested to them the cer- 
tainty of their readily obtaining great prices for these gems 
among the rich strangers with whom Rome was thronged. 

The impression made upon their greedy minds was 
immediately apparent. One of the band, a young man, and 
the least known, requested permission of the captain to de- 
part the following day, in disguise, for Rome, for the purpose 
of traffic; promising, on the faith of a bandit, (a sacred 
pledge among them,) to return in two days to any place 
that he might appoint. The captain consented, and a 
curious scene took place; the robbers crowded round him 
eagerly, confiding to him such of their jewels as they wished 
to dispose of, and giving him instructions what to demand. 
There was much bargaining and exchanging and selling of 
trinkets among them; and I beheld my watch, which had 
a chain and valuable seals, purchased by the young robber- 
merchant of the ruffan who had plundered me, for sixty 
dollars. I now conceived a faint hope, that if it went to 
Rome, I might somehow or other regain possession of it.* 


*The hopes of the artist were not disappointed—the robber was 


THE PAINTER’S ADVENTURE. 353 


In the mean time day declined, and no messenger returned 
from Tusculum. The idea of passing another night in the 
woods was extremely disheartening, for I began to be satis- 
fied with what I had seen of robber-life. The chieftain now 
ordered his men to follow him, that he might station them at 
their posts; adding, that if the messenger did not return 
before night, they must shift their quarters to some other 
place. 

I was again left alone with the young bandit who had 
before guarded me; he had the same gloomy air and haggard 
eye, with now and then a bitter sardonic smile. I deter- 
mined to probe this ulcerated heart, and reminded him of a 
kind promise he had given me to tell me the cause of his 
suffering. It seemed to me as if these troubled spirits were 
glad of any opportunity to disburden themselves, and of hav- 
ing some fresh, undiseased mind, with which they could com- 
municate. I had hardly made the request, when he seated 
himself by my side, and gave me his story in, as near as I| 
can recollect, the following words. 


stopped at one of the gates of Rome. Something in his looks or deport- 
ment had excited suspicion. He was searched, and the valuable trin- 
kets found on him sufficiently evinced his character. On applying to 
the police, the artist’s watch was returned to him. 


THE STORY OF THE YOUNG ROBBER. 


WAS born in the little town of Frosinone, which lies at 

the skirts of the Abruzzi. My father had made a little 
property in trade, and gave me some education, as he in- 
tended me for the church; but I had kept gay company too 
much to relish the cowl, so I grew up a loiterer about the place. 
I was a heedless fellow, a little quarrelsome on occasion, but 
good-humored in the main; so I made my way very well for 
a time, until I fell in love. There lived in our town a sur- 
veyor or land-bailiff of the prince, who had a young daughter, 
a beautiful girl of sixteen ; she was looked upon as something 
better than the common run of our townsfolk, and was kept 
almost entirely at home. I saw her occasionally, and be- 
came madly in love with her—she looked so fresh and tender, 
and so different from the sunburnt females to whom I had 
been accustomed. 

As my father kept me in money, I always dressed well, 
and took all opportunities of showing myself off to advantage 
in the eyes of the little beauty. I used to see her at church ; 
and as I could play a little upon the guitar, I gave a tune 
sometimes under her window of an evening; and I tried to 


oO? 
have interviews with her in her father’s vineyard, not far 


THE YOUNG ROBBER. 3D5 


from the town, where she sometimes walked. She was 
evidently pleased with me, but she was young and shy ; and 
her father kept a strict eye upon her, and took alarm at my 
attentions, for he had a bad opinion of me, and looked for a 
better match for his daughter. I became furious at the diffi- 
culties thrown in my way, having been accustomed always 
to easy success among the women, being considered one of 
the smartest young fellows of the place. 

Her father brought home a suitor for her, a rich farmer 
from a neighboring town. The wedding-day was appointed, 
and preparations were making. I got sight of her at the 
window, and I thought she looked sadly at me. I determined 
the match should not take place, cost what it might. I met 
her intended bridegroom in the market-place, and could not 
restrain the expression of my rage. A few hot words passed 
between us, when I drew my stiletto and stabbed him to the 
heart. I fled to a neighboring church for refuge, and with a 
little money I obtained absolution, but I did not dare to ven- . 
ture from my asylum. 

At that time our captain was forming his troop. He had 
known me from boyhood; and hearing of my situation, came 
to me in secret, and made such offers, that I agreed to enroll 
myself among his followers. Indeed, 1 had more than once 
thought of taking to this mode of life, having known several 
brave fellows of the mountains, who used to spend their 
money freely among us youngsters of the town. I accord- 
ingly left my asylum Jate one night, repaired to the appointed 
place of meeting, took the oaths prescribed, and became one 
of the troop. We were for some time in a distant part of 


the mountains, and our wild adventurous. kind of life hit my 


356 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


fancy wonderfully, and diverted my thoughts. At length 
they returned with all their violence to the recollection of 
Rosetta ; the solitude in which I often found myself gave me 
time to brood over her image; and, as I have kept watch at 
night over our sleeping camp in the mountains, my feelings 
have been aroused almost to a fever. 

At length we shifted our ground, and determined to 
make a descent upon the road between Terracina and Naples. 
In the course of our expedition we passed a day or two in the 
woody mountains which rise above Frosinone. I cannot 
tell you how I felt when I looked down upon that place, and 
distinguished the residence of Rosetta. I determined to have 
an interview with her;—but to what purpose? I could not 
expect that she would quit her home, and accompany me in 
my hazardous life among the mountains. She had been 
brought up too tenderly for that; when I looked upon the 
women who were associated with some of our troop, I could 
not have borne the thoughts of her being their companion. 
All return to my former life was likewise hopeless, for a 
price was set upon my head. Still I determined to see her; 
the very hazard and fruitlessness of the thing made me furious 
to accomplish it. 

About three weeks since, I persuaded our captain to draw 
down to the vicinity of Frosinone, suggesting the chance of 
entrapping some of its principal inhabitants, and compelling 
them to a ransom. We were lying in ambush towards 
evening, not far from the vineyard of Rosetta’s father. I 
stole quietly from my companions, and drew near to re- 
connoitre the place of her frequent walks. How my heart 
beat when among the vines I beheld the gleaming of a white 


THE YOUNG ROBBER. 357 


dress! I knew it must be Rosetta’s; it being rare for any 
female of that place to dress in white. I advanced secretly 
and without noise, until, putting aside the vines, I stood 
suddenly before her. She uttered a piercing shriek, but I 
seized her in my arms, put my hand upon her mouth, and 
conjured her to be silent. I poured out all the frenzy of my 
passion ; offered to renounce my mode of life ; to put my fate 
in her hands; to fly where we might live in safety together. 
All that I could say or do would not pacify her. Instead of 
love, horror and affright seemed to have taken possession of 
her breast. She struggled partly from my grasp, and filled 
the air with her cries. 

In an instant the captain and the rest of my companions 
were around us. I would have given any thing at that 
moment had she been safe out of our hands, and in her 
father’s house. It was too late. The captain pronounced her 
a prize, and ordered that she should be borne to the moun- 
tains. I represented to him that she was my prize; that I 
had a previous claim to her; and I mentioned my former 
attachment. He sneered bitterly in reply; observed that 
brigands had no business with village intrigues, and that, 
according to the laws of the troop, all spoils of the kind were 
determined by lot. Love and jealousy were raging in 
my heart, but I had to choose between obedience and 
death. I surrendered her to the captain, and we made for the 
mountains. 

She was overcome by affright, and her steps were so 
feeble and faltering that it was necessary to support her. I 
could not endure the idea that my comrades should touch her, 


and assuming a forced tranquillity, begged she might be 


358 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


confided to me, as one to whom she was more accustomed. 
The captain regarded me, for a moment, with a searching 
look, but I bore it without flinching, and he consented. I 
took her in my arms; she was almost senseless. Her head 
rested on my shoulder; I felt her breath on my face, and it 
seemed to fan the flame which devoured me. Oh God! to 
have this glowing treasure in my arms, and yet to think it 
was not mine! 

We arrived at the foot of the mountain; I ascended it 
with difficulty, particularly where the woods were thick, but 
I would not relinquish my delicious burden. I reflected with 
rage, however, that I must soon do so. The thoughts that so 
delicate a creature must be abandoned to my rude -compan- 
ions maddened me. I felt tempted, the stiletto in my hand, 
to cut my way through them all, and bear her off in triumph. 
I scarcely conceived the idea before I saw its rashness ; but 
my brain was fevered with the thought that any but myself 
should enjoy her charms. I endeavored to outstrip my com- 
panions by the quickness of my movements, and to get a 
little distance ahead, in case any favorable opportunity of 
escape should present. Vain effort! The voice of the cap- 
tain suddenly ordered a halt. I trembled, but had to obey. 
The poor girl partly opened a languid eye, but was without 
strength or motion. I laid her upon the grass. The captain 
darted on me a terrible look of suspicion, and ordered me 
to scour the woods with my companions in search of 
some shepherd, who might be sent to her father’s to demand a 
ransom. 

I saw at once the peril. To resist with violence was cer- 
tain death, but to leave her alone, in the power of the cap- 


THE YOUNG ROBBER. 359 


tain !—I spoke out then with a fervor, inspired by my passion 
and by despair. I reminded the captain that I was the first 
to seize her; that she was my prize; and that my previous 
attachment to her ought to make her sacred among my 
companions. I insisted, therefore, that he should pledge me 
his word to respect her, otherwise I would refuse obedience 
to his orders. His only reply was to cock his carbine, and 
at the signal my comrades did the same. They laughed with 
eruelty at my impotent rage. What could Ido? I felt the 
madness of resistance. 1 was menaced on all hands, and my 
companions obliged me to follow them. She remained alone 
with the chief—yes, alone—and almost lifeless !— 

Here the robber paused in his recital, overpowered by 
his emotions. Great drops of sweat stood on his forehead ; 
he panted rather than breathed; his brawny bosom rose and 
fell like the waves of the troubled sea. When he had be- 
come a little calm, he continued his recital. 

I was not long in finding a shepherd, said he. Iran with 
the rapidity of a deer, eager, if possible, to get back before 
what I dreaded might take place. I had left my companions 
far behind, and I rejoined them before they had reached one 
half the distance I had made. I hurried them back to the place 
where we had left the captain. As we approuched, I beheld 
him seated by the side of Rosetta. His triumphant look, 
and the desolate condition of the unfortunate girl, left 
me no doubt of her fate. I know not how I restrained my 
fury. 

It was with extreme difficulty, and by guiding her hand, 
that she was made to trace a few characters, requesting her 
father to send three hundred dollars as her ransom. The 


360 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


letter was despatched by the shepherd. When he was gone, 
the chief turned sternly to me. “ You have set an example,” 
said he, “ of mutiny and self-will, which, if indulged, would be 
ruinous to the troop. Had I treated you as our laws re- 
quire, this bullet would have been driven through your 
brain. But you are an old friend. I have borne patiently 
with your fury and your folly. I have even protected you 
from a foolish passion that would have unmanned you. “As 
to this girl, the laws of our association must have their 
course.” So saying, he gave his commands: lots were 
drawn, and the helpless girl was abandoned to the troop. 

Here the robber paused again, panting with fury, and it 
was some moments before he could resume his story. 

Hell, said he, was raging in my heart. I beheld the_im- 
possibility of avenging myself; and I felt that, according to 
the articles in which we stood bound to one another, the cap- 
tain was in the right. JI rushed with frenzy from the place; 
I threw myself upon the earth; tore up the grass with my 
hands ; and beat my head and gnashed my teeth in agony and 
rage. When at length I returned, I beheld the wretched 
victim, pale, dishevelled, her dress torn and disordered. An 
emotion of pity, for a moment, subdued my fiercer feelings. 
I bore her to the foot of a tree, and leaned her gently against 
it. I took my gourd, which was filled with wine, and apply- 
ing it to her lips, endeavored to make her swallow a little. 
To what a condition was she reduced! she, whom I had once 
seen the pride of Frosinone; who but a short time before I 
had beheld sporting in her father’s vineyard, so fresh, and 
beautiful, and happy! Her teeth were clenched; her eyes 
fixed on the ground; her form without motion, and in a state 


THE YOUNG ROBBER. 361 


of absolute insensibility. I hung over her in an agony of re- 
collection at all that she had been, and of anguish at what I 
now beheld her. I darted around a look of horror at my 
companions, who seemed like so many fiends exulting in the 
downfall of an angel; and I felt a horror at being myself 
their accomplice. 

The captain, always suspicious, saw, with his usual pene- 
tration, what was passing within me, and ordered me to go 
upon the ridge of the woods, to keep a look-out over the 
neighborhood, and await the return of the shepherd. I[ 
obeyed, of course, stifling the fury that raged within me, 
though I felt, for the moment, that he was my most deadly 
foe. 

On my way, however, a ray of reflection came across my 
mind. I perceived that the captain was but following, with 
strictness, the terrible laws to which we had sworn fidelity. 
That the passion by which I had been blinded might, with 
justice, have been fatal to me, but for his forbearance ; that 
he had penetrated my soul, and had taken precautions, by 
sending me out of the way, to prevent my committing any 
excess in my anger. From that instant I felt that I was 
capable of pardoning him. 

Occupied with these thoughts, I arrived at the foot of the 
mountain. ‘The country was solitary and secure, and in a short 
time I beheld the shepherd at a distance crossing the plain. 
I hastened to meet him. He had obtained nothing. He had 
found the father plunged in the deepest distress. He had 
read the letter with violent emotion, and then, calming himself 
with a sudden exertion, he had replied coldly : “ My daughter 

16 


ie) 


362 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


has been dishonored by those wretches ; let her be returned 
without ransom,—or let her die!” 

I] shuddered at this reply. I knew that, according to the 
laws of our troop, her death was inevitable. Our oaths re- 
quired it. -I felt, nevertheless, that not having been able to 
have her to myself, I could be her executioner ! 

The robber again paused with agitation. I sat musing 
upon his last frightful words, which proved to what excess 
the passions may be carried, when escaped from all moral 
restraint. There was a horrible verity in this story that re- 
minded me of some of the tragic fictions of Dante. 

We now come to a fatal moment, resumed the bandit. 
After the report of the shepherd, I returned with him, and 
the chieftain received from his lips the refusal of her father. 
At a signal which we all understood, we followed him 
to some distance from the victim. He there pronounced 
her sentence of déath. Every one stood ready to execute his 
orders, but I interfered. I observed that there was some- 
thing due to pity as well as to justice. That I was as ready 
as any one to approve the implacable law, which was to serve 
as a warning to all those who hesitated to pay the ransoms de- 
manded for our prisoners; but that though the sacrifice was 
proper, it ought to be made without cruelty. The night is 
approaching, continued I; she will soon be wrapped in sleep ; 
let her then be dispatched. All I now claim on the score of 
former kindness is, let me strike the blow. I will do it as 
surely, though more tenderly than another. Several 
raised their voices against my proposition, but the captain 


imposed silence on them. He told me I might conduct her 


THE PAINTER’S ADVENTURE. 3863 


into a thicket at some distance, and he relied upon my pro- 
mise. 

I hastened to seize upon my prey. There was a forlorn kind 
of triumph at having at length become her exclusive posses- 
sor. I bore her off into the thickness of the forest. She re- 
mained in the same state of insensibility or stupor. I was 
al that she did not recollect me, for had she once mur- 
mured my name, ! should have been overcome. She slept 
at length in the arms of him who was to poniard her. Many 
were the conflicts I underwent before I could bring myself to 
strike the blow. But my heart had become sore by the 
recent conflicts it had undergone, and I dreaded lest, by procras- 
tination, some other should become her executioner. When 
her repose had continued for some time, I separated myself 
gently from her, that I might not disturb her sleep, and seiz- 
ing suddenly my poniard, plunged it intoher bosom. A pain- 
ful and concentrated murmur, but without any convulsive 
movement, accompanied her last sigh—So perished this 
unfortunate ! 


He ceased to speak. 1 sat, horror-struck, covering my 
face with my hands, seeking, as it were, to hide from myself 
the frightful images he had presented to my mind. I was 
roused from this silence by the voice of the captain: “ You 
sleep,” said he, “and it is time to be off. Come, we must 
abandon this height, as night is setting in, and the messenger 
is not returned. I will post some one on the mountain edge 


to conduct him to the place where we shall pass the night.” 


564 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


This was no agreeable news tome. I was sick at heart 
with the dismal story I had heard. I was harassed. and 
fatigued, and the sight of the banditti began to grow insup- 
portable to me. . 

The captain assembled his comrades. We rapidly de- 
scended the forest, which we had mounted with so much diffi- 
culty in the morning, and soon arrived in what appeared to 
be a frequented road. The robbers proceeded with great 
caution, carrying their guns cocked, and looking on every side 
with wary and suspicious eyes. They were apprehensive of 
encountering the civic patrole. We left Rocca Priori behind 
us. There was a fountain near by, and as I was excessively 
thirsty, I begged permission to stop and drink. The captain 
himself went and brought me water in his hat. We pursued 
our route, when, at the extremity of an alley which crossed the 
road, I perceived a female on horseback, dressed in white. 
She was alone. I recollected the fate of the poor girl in the 
story, and trembled for her safety. 

One of the brigands saw her at the same instant, and 
plunging into the bushes, he ran precipitately in the direction 
towards her. Stopping on the border of the alley, he put one 
knee to the ground, presented his carbine ready to menace 
her, or to shoot her horse if she attempted to fly, and in this 
way awaited her approach. I kept my eyes fixed on her with 
intense anxiety. I felt tempted to shout and warn her of her 
danger, though my own destruction would have been the 
consequence. It was awful to see this tiger crouching ready 
for a bound, and the poor innocent victim unconsciously near 
him. Nothing but a mere chance could save her. To my 
joy the chance turned in her favor. She seemed almost 


THE PAINTER’S ADVENTURE. 365 


accidentally to take an opposite path, which led outside of the 
woods, where the robber dared not venture. To this casual 
deviation she owed her safety. 

I could not imagine why the captain of the band had 
ventured to such a distance from the height on which he had 
placed the sentinel to watch the return of the messenger. 
He seemed himself anxious at the risk to which he ex- 
posed himself. His movements were rapid and uneasy; I 
could scarce keep pace with him. At length, after three 
hours of what might be termed a forced march, we mounted 
the extremity of the same woods, the summit of which we had 
occupied during the day; and I learnt with satisfaction that 
we had reached our quarters for the night. “You must be 
fatigued,” said the chieftain; “but it was necessary to sur- 
vey the environs so as not to be surprised during the night. 
Had we met with the famous civic guard of Rocca Priori, 
you would have seen fine sport.’”’ Such was the indefatigable 
precaution and forethought of this robber chief, who really 
gave continual evidence of military talent. 

The night was magnificent. The moon, rising above the 
horizon in a cloudless sky, faintly lit up the grand features of 
the mountain, while lights twinkling here and there, like ter- 
restrial stars in the wide dusky expanse of the landscape, 
betrayed the lonely cabins of the shepherds. Exhausted by 
fatigue, and by the many agitations I had experienced, I pre- 
pared to sleep, soothed by the hope of approaching deliver- 
ance. The captain ordered his companions to collect some 
dry moss ; he arranged with his own hands a kind of mattress 
and pillow of it, and gave me his ample mantle as a covering. 


I could not but feel both surprised and gratified by such un- 


366 TALES OF A.TRAVELLER. | 


expected attentions on the part of this benevolent cut-throat ; 
for there is nothing more striking than to find the ordinary 
charities, which are matters of course in common life, flourish- 
ing by the side of such stern and sterile crime. It is like 
finding tender flowers and fresh herbage of the valley growing 
among the rocks and cinders of the volcano. 

Before I fell asleep I had some further discourse with the 
captain, who seemed to feel great confidence in me. He re- 
ferred to our previous conversation of the morning; told me 
he was weary of his hazardous profession; that he had ac- 
quired sufficient property, and was anxious to return to the 
world, and lead a peaceful life in the bosom of his family. 
He wished to know whether it was not in my power +o pro- 
cure for him a passport to the United States of America. I 
applauded his good intentions, and promised to do every 
thing in my pewer to promote its success. We then parted 
for the night. I stretched myself upon my couch of moss, 
which, after my fatigues, felt like a bed of down; and, shel- 
tered by the robber-mantle from all humidity,I slept soundly, 
without waking, until the signal to arise. 

It was nearly six o’clock, and the day was just dawning. 
As the place where we had passed the night was too much 
exposed, we moved up into the thickness of the woods. <A 
fire was kindled. While there was any flame, the mantles 
were again extended round it: but when nothing remained 
but glowing cinders, they were lowered, and the robbers 
seated themselves in a circle. 

The scene before me reminded me of some of those de- 
scribed by Homer. There wanted only the victim on the 
coals, and the sacred knife to cut off the succulent parts, and 


THE .PAINTER’S ADVENTURE. 367 


distribute them around. My companions might have rivalled 
the grim warriors of Greece. In place of the noble repasts, 
however, of Achilles and Agamemnon, I beheld displayed on 
the grass the remains of the ham which had sustained so vig- 
orous an attack on the preceding evening, accompanied by the 
relics of the bread, cheese, and wine. We had scarcely com- 
menced our frugal breakfast, when I heard again an imitation 
of the bleating of sheep, similar to what I had heard the day 
before. The captain answered it in the same tone. Two 
men were soon after seen descending from the woody height, 
where we had passed the preceding evening. On nearer ap- 
proach, they proved to be the sentinel and the messenger. 
The captain rose, and went to meet them. He made a signal 
for his comrades to joinhim. They had a short conference, 
and then returning to me with great eagerness, “ Your ransom 
is paid,” said he, “ you are free!” 

Though I had anticipated deliverance, I cannot tell you 
what a rush of delight these tidings gave me. I cared not to 
finish my repast, but prepared to depart. The captain took 
me by the hand, requested permission to write to me, and 
begged ine not to forget the passport. I replied, that I hoped 
to be of effectual service to him, and that I relied on his 
honor to return the Prince’s note, for five hundred dollars, 
now that the cash was paid. He regarded me for a moment 
with surprise, then seeming to recollect himself, “ 4’ giusto,” 
said he, “ eccoto—adio !” * He delivered me the note, pressed 
my hand once more, and we separated. The laborers were 
permitted to follow me, and we resumed with joy our road 
toward Tusculum. 


*It is just—there it is—adieu ! 


368 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


- §& 


The Frenchman ceased to speak. The party continued, 
for a few moments, to pace the shore in silence. The story 
had made a deep impression, particularly on the Venetian 
lady. At that part which related to the young girl of Frosi- 
none, she was violently affected. Sobs broke from her; she 
clung closer to her husband, and as she looked up to him as 
if for protection, the moonbeams shining on her beautifully 
fair countenance, showed it paler than usual, while tears glit- 
tered in her fine dark eyes. 

“ Corragio, mia vita!” said he, as he gently and fondly 
tapped the white hand that lay upon his arm. 

The party now returned to the inn, and separated for the 
night. The fair Venetian, though of the sweetest tempera- 
ment, was half out of humor with the Englishman, for a cer- 
tain slowness of faith which he had evinced throughout the 
whole evening. She could not understand this dislike to 
“ humbug,” as he termed it, which held a kind of sway over 
him, and seemed to control his opinions and his very actions. 

“Tl warrant,” said she to her husband, as they retired 
for the night,—*“ ll warrant, with all his affected indifference, 
this Englishman’s heart would quake at the very sight of a 
bandit.” 

Her husband gently, and good-humoredly, checked her. 

“T have no patience with these Englishmen,” said she, as 
she got into bed—* they are so cold and insensible ! ” 


THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENGLISHMAN. 


N the morning all was bustle in the inn at Terracina. The 
procaccio had departed at daybreak on its route towards 
Rome, but the Englishman was yet to start, and the departure 
of an English equipage is always enough to keep an inn in a 
bustle. On this occasion there was more than usual stir, for 
the Englishman, having much property about him, and having 
been convinced of the real danger of the road, had applied to 
the police, and obtained, by dint of liberal pay, an escort of 
eight dragoons and twelve foot soldiers, as far as Fondi. 
Perhaps, too, there might have been a little ostentation at 
bottom, though, to say the truth, he had nothing of it in his 
manner. He moved about, taciturn and reserved as usual, 
among the gaping crowd; gave laconic orders to John, as he 
packed away the thousand and one indispensable conveniences 
of the night ; double loaded his pistols with great sang froid, 
and deposited them in the pockets -of the carriage ; taking no 
notice of a pair of keen eyes gazing on him from among the 
herd of loitering idlers. 
The fair Venetian now came up with a request, made in 
her dulcet tones, that he would permit their carriage to pro- 
ceed under protection of his escort. The Englishman, who 


370 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


was busy loading another pair of pistols for his servant, and 
held the ramrod between his teeth, nodded assent, as a matter 
of course, but without lifting up his eyes. The fair Venetian 
was a little piqued at what she supposed indifference :—* O 
Dio!” ejaculated she softly as she retired; “ Quanto sono 
insensibili questi Inglesi.” 

At length, off they set in gallant style. The eight dra- 
goons prancing in front, the twelve foot soldiers marching in 
rear, and the carriage moving slowly in the centre, to enable 
the infantry to keep pace with them. ‘They had proceeded 
but a few hundred yards, when it was discovered that some 
indispensable article had been left behind. In fact, the Eng- 
lishman’s purse was missing, and John was despatched to 
the inn to search for it. This occasioned a little delay, and 
the carriage of the Venetians drove slowly on. John came 
back out of breath and out of humor. ‘The purse was not to 
be found. His master was irritated ; he recollected the very 
place where it lay; he had not a doubt the Italian servant had 
pocketed it. John was again sent back. He returned once 
more without the purse, but with the landlord and the whole 
household at his heels. A thousand ejaculations and protes- 
tations, accompanied by all sorts of grimaces and contortions 
—‘“ No purse had been seen—his excellenza must be mistaken.” | 

“ No—his excellenza was not mistaken—the purse lay on 
the marble table, under the mirror, a green purse, half full 
of gold and silver.” Again a thousand grimaces and contor- 
tions, and vows by San Gennaro, that no purse of the kind 
had been seen. 

The Englishman became furious. “The waiter had pock- 
eted it—the landlord was a knave—the inn a den of thieves 


THE ENGLISHMAN’S ADVENTURE. el 


—it was a vile country—he had been cheated and plundered 
from one end of it to the other—but he’d have satisfaction— 
he’d drive right off to the police.” 

He was on the point of ordering the postilions to turn 
back, when, on rising, he displaced the cushion of the carriage, 
and the purse of money fell chinking to the floor. 

All the blood in his body seemed to rush into his face— 
“ Curse the purse,” said he, as he snatched it up. He dashed 
a handful of money on the ground before the pale, cringing 

-waiter—* There, be off!” cried he. “John, order the postil- 
ions to drive on.” 

About half an hour had been exhausted in this altercation. 
The Venetian carriage had loitered along; its passengers 
looking out from time to time, and expecting the escort every 
moment to follow. They had gradually turned an angle of 
the road that shut them out of sight. The little army was 
again in motion, and made a very picturesque appearance as 
it wound along at the bottom of the rocks; the morning sun- 
shine beaming upon the weapons of the soldiery. 

The Englishman lolled back in his carriage, vexed with 
himself at what had passed, and consequently out of humor 
with all the world. As this, however, is no uncommon case 
with gentlemen who travel for their pleasure, it is hardly 
worthy of remark. They had wound up from the coast 
among the hills, and came to a part of the road that admitted 
of some prospect ahead. 

‘“T see nothing of the lady’s carriage, sir,” said John, lean- 
ing down from the coach-box. 

“Pish!” said the Englishman, testily—“ don’t plague 
me about the lady’s carriage; must I be continually pestered 


872 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


with the concerns of strangers?” John said not another 
word, for he understood his master’s mood. 

The road grew more wild and lonely ; they were slowly 
proceeding on a foot-pace up a hill; the dragoons were some 
distance ahead, and had just reached the summit of the hill, 
when they uttered an exclamation, or rather shout, and gal- 
loped forward. The Englishman was roused from his sulky 
reverie. He stretched his head from the carriage, which had 
attained the brow of the hill. Before him extended a long 
hollow defile, commanded on one side by rugged precipitous 
heights, covered with bushes of scanty forest. At some dis- 
tance he beheld the carriage of the Venetians overturned. 
A numerous gang of desperadoes were rifling it; the young 
man and his servant were overpowered, and partly stripped ; 
and the lady was in the hands of two of the ruffians. The 
Englishman seized his pistols, sprang from the carriage, and 
called upon John to follow him. 

In the mean time, as the dragoons came forward, the rob- 
bers, who were busy with the carriage, quitted their spoil, 
formed themselves in the middle of the road, and taking a 
deliberate aim, fired. One of the dragoons fell, another was 
wounded, and the whole were for a moment checked and 
thrown into confusion. The robbers loaded again in an in- 
stant. The dragoons discharged their carbines, but without 
apparent effect. They received another volley, which, though 
none fell, threw them again into confusion. The robbers 
were loading a second time when they saw the foot soldiers 
at hand. “ Scampa via!” was the word: they abandoned 
their prey, and retreated up the rocks, the soldiers after 
them. They fought from cliff to cliff, and bush to bush, the 


THE ENGLISHMAN’S ADVENTURE. 878 


robbers turning every now and then to fire upon their pur- 
suers; the soldiers scrambling after them, and discharging 
their muskets whenever they could get a chance. Sometimes 
a soldier or a robber was shot down, and came tumbling 
among the cliffs. The dragoons kept firing from below, 
whenever a robber came in sight. 

The Englishman had hastened to the scene of action, and 
the balls discharged at the dragoons had whistled past him as 
he advanced. One object, however, engrossed his attention. 
It was the beautiful Venetian lady in the hands of two of the 
robbers, who, during the confusion of the fight, carried her 
shrieking up the mountain. He saw her dress gleaming 
among the bushes, and he sprang up the rocks to intercept 
the robbers, as they bore off their prey. The ruggedness of 
the steep, and the entanglements of the bushes, delayed and 
impeded him. He lost sight of the lady, but was still guided 
by her cries, which grew fainter and fainter. They were off 
to the left, while the reports of muskets showed that the 
battle was raging to the right. At length he came upon what 
appeared to be a rugged footpath, faintly worn in a gulley of 
the rocks, and beheld the rufhans at some distance hurrying 
the lady up the defile. One of them hearing his approach, 
let go his prey, advanced towards him, and levelling the car- 
bine which had been slung on his back, fired. The ball 
whizzed through the Englishman’s hat, and carried with it 
some of his hair. He returned the fire with one of his 
pistols, and the robber fell. The other brigand now dropped 
the lady, and drawing a long pistol from his belt, fired on 
his adversary with deliberate aim. The ball passed between 
his left arm and. his side, slightly wounding the arm. The 


374 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


Englishman advanced, and discharged his remaining pistol, 
which wounded the robber, but not severely. 

The brigand drew a stiletto and rushed upon his adver- 
sary, who eluded the blow, receiving merely a slight wound, 
and defended himself with his pistol, which had a spring bay- 
onet. They closed with one another, and a desperate struggle 
ensued. The robber was a square-built, thickset man, power- 
ful, muscular, and active. The Englishman, though of larger 
frame and greater strength, was less active, and less accus- 
tomed to athletic exercises and feats of hardihood, but he 
showed himself practised and skilled in the art of defence. 
They were on a craggy height, and the Englishman perceived 
that his antagonist was striving to press him to the edge. A 
side-glance showed him also the robber whom he had first 
wounded, scrambling up to the assistance of his comrade, 
stiletto in hand. He had in fact attained the summit of the 
cliff, he was within a few steps, and the Englishman felt that 
his case was desperate, when he heard suddenly the report of} 
a pistol, and the rufhan fell. The shot came from John, 
who had arrived just in time to save his master. 

The remaining robber, exhausted by loss of blood and the 
violence of the contest, showed signs of faltering. The Eng- 
lishman pursued his advantage, pressed on him, and as his 
strength relaxed, dashed him headlong from the precipice. 
He looked after him, and saw him lying motionless among 
the rocks below. 

The Englishman now sought the fair Venetian. He found 
her senseless on the ground. With his servant’s assistance he 
bore her down to the road, where her husband was raving 
like one distracted. He had sought her in vain, and had 


THE ENGLISHMAN’S ADVENTURE. 375 


given her over for lost ; and when he beheld her thus brought 
back in safety, his joy was equally wild and ungovernable. 
He would have caught her insensible form to his bosom had 
not the Englishman restrained him. The latter, now really 
aroused, displayed a true tenderness and manly gallantry, 
which one would not have expected from his habitual 
phlegm. His kindness, however, was practical, not wasted 
in words. He despatched John to the carriage for restora- 
tives of all kinds, and, totally thoughtless of himself, was anx- 
ious only about his lovely charge. The occasional discharge 
of firearms along the height, showed that a retreating fight 
was still kept up by the robbers. The lady gave signs of 
reviving animation. The Englishman, eager to get her from 
this place of danger, conveyed her to his own carriage, and, 
committing her to the care of her husband, ordered the dra- 
goons to escort them to Fondi. The Venetian would have 
insisted on the Englishman’s getting into the carriage ; but 
the latter refused. He poured forth a torrent of thanks and 
benedictions ; but the Englishman beckoned to the postilions 
to drive on. 

John now dressed his master’s wounds, which were found 
not to be serious, though he was faint with loss of blood. 
The Venetian carriage had been righted, and the baggage 
replaced; and, getting into it, they set out on their way 
towards Fondi, leaving the foot-soldiers still engaged in fer- 
reting out the banditti. 

Before arriving at Fondi, the fair Venetian had com- 
pletely recovered from her swoon. She made the usual 
question— 

“Where was she?” 


876 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


“Tn the Englishman’s carriage.” 

‘How had she escaped from the robbers ? ” 

“The Englishman had rescued her.” 

Her transports were unbounded ; and mingled with them 
were enthusiastic ejaculations of gratitude to her deliverer. 
A thousand times did she reproach herself for having accused 
him of coldness and insensibility. ‘The moment she saw him, 
she rushed into his arms with the vivacity of her nation, and 
hung about his neck in a speechless transport of gratitude. 
Never was man more embarrassed by the embraces of a fine 


woman. 
Tut !—tut!” said the Englishman. 
‘*'You are wounded!” shrieked the fair Venetian, as she saw blood 
upon his clothes. 
“Pooh! nothing at all! ” 


‘*“ My deliverer! 


—my angel!” ex- 


claimed she, clasp- 


> 


ing him = again ~ 
round the _ neck, 
and sobbing on his 


bosom. j) 
é eget) 
“Pish!” said / 


H] 
the Englishman, yp 


H 
I 


. . 
foolish, ‘‘ this is |j 
all humbug.” Ma 
The fair Vene- 1 | 
tian, however, has © / 
never since accused // Ht iN 
the English of in- ‘i 
sensibility. 


i il 


‘ 


PART FOURTH. 


THE MONEY-DIGGERS. 


FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE DIEDRICH 
KNICKERBOCKER. 


“Now I remember those old women’s words, 
Who in my youth would tell me winter’s tales: 
And speak of sprites and ghosts that glide by night 
About the place where treasure hath been hid.” 
Mar ow’s Jew of Malta. 


¥ 


eft: peematy Se 


oi apy <eaiis 
2 Gubr £ 


i 


’ f 
* oe 
7. i) sha « 
” : ‘ 
ALY es ’ 
ent 


HELL-GATE. 


BOUT six miles from the renowned city of the Manhat- 

toes, in that Sound or arm of the sea which passes be- 
tween the mainland and Nassau, or Long Island, there is a 
narrow strait, where the current is violently compressed 
between shouldering promontories, and horribly perplexed 
by rocks and shoals. Being, at the best of times, a very 
violent, impetuous current, it takes these impediments in 
mighty dudgeon ; boiling in whirlpools; brawling and fret- 
ting in ripples; raging and roaring in rapids and breakers ; 
and, in short, indulging in all kinds of wrong-headed par- 
oxysms. At such times, woe to any unlucky vessel that -ven- 
tures within its clutches. 

This termagant humor, however, prevails only at certain 
times of tide. At low water, for instance, it is as pacific a 
stream as you would wish to see; but as the tide rises, it 
begins to fret ; at half-tide it roars with might and main, like 
a bull bellowing for more drink ; but when the tide is full, it 
relapses into quiet, and, for a time, sleeps as soundly as an 
alderman after dinner. In fact, it may be compared to a 
quarrelsome toper, who is a peaceable fellow enough when he 
has no liquor at all, or when he has a skinfull ; but who, when 
half-seas over, plays the very devil. . 


380 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


This mighty, blustering, bullying, hard-drinking little 
strait, was a place of great danger and perplexity to the 
Dutch navigators of ancient days; hectoring their tub-built 
barks in a most unruly style; whirling them about in a 
manner to make any but a Dutchman giddy, and not unfre- 
quently stranding them upon rocks and reefs, as it did the 
famous squadron of Oloffe the Dreamer, when seeking a place 
to found the city of the Manhattoes. Whereupon, out of 
sheer spleen, they denominated it Helle-gat, and solemnly 
gave ft over to the devil. This appellation has since been 
aptly rendered into English by the name of Hell-gate, and 
into nonsense by the name of Hurl-gate, according to certain 
foreign intruders, who neither understood Dutch nor English 
—may St. Nicholas confound them ! 

This strait of Hell-gate was a place of great awe and per- 
ilous enterprise to me in my boyhood, having been much of 
a navigator on those small seas, and having more than once 
run the risk of shipwreck and drowning in the course of 
certain holiday voyages, to which, in common with other 
Dutch urchins, I was rather prone. Indeed, partly from the 
name, and partly from various strange circumstances con- 
nected with it, this place had far more terrors in the eyes of 
my truant companions and myself than had Scylla and Cha- 
rybdis for the navigators of yore. 

In the midst of this strait, and hard by a group of rocks 
called the Hen and Chickens, there lay the wreck of a vessel 
which had been entangled in the whirlpools and stranded dur- 
ing a storm. There was a wild story told to us of this being 
the wreck of a pirate, and some tale of bloody murder which 
I cannot now recollect, but which made us regard it with 


HELL-GATE. 3881 


great awe, and keep far from it in our cruisings. Indeed, the 
desolate look of the forlorn hulk, and the fearful place where 
it lay rotting, were enough to awaken strange notions. A 
row of timber-heads, blackened by time, just peered above 
the surface at high water ; but at low tide a considerable part 
of the hull was bare, and its great ribs or timbers, partly 
stripped of their planks, and dripping with sea-weeds, looked 
like the huge skeleton of some sea-monster. There was also 
the stump of a mast, with a few ropes and blocks swinging 
about and whistling in the wind, while the sea-gull wheeled 
and screamed around the melancholy carcass. I have a faint 
recollection of some hobgoblin tale of sailors’ ghosts being 
seen about this wreck at night, with bare skulls, and blue 
lights in their sockets instead of eyes, but I have forgotten all 
the particulars. 

In fact, the whole of this neighborhood was like the straits 
of Pelorus of yore, a region of fable and romance. to me. 
From the strait to the Manhattoes, the borders of the Sound 
are greatly diversified, being broken and indented by rocky 
nooks overhung with trees, which give them a wild and ro- 
mantic look. In the time of my boyhood, they abounded 
with traditions about pirates, ghosts, smugglers, and buried 
money ; which had a wonderful effect upon the young minds 
of my companions and myself. 

As I grew to more mature years, I made diligent research 
after the truth of these strange traditions; for I have always 
been a curious investigator of the valuable but obscure 
branches of the history of my native province. I found 
infinite difficulty, however, in arriving at any precise infor- 


mation. In seeking to dig up one fact, it is incredible the 


382 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


number of fables that J unearthed. I will say nothing of the 
devil’s stepping-stones, by which the arch-fiend made his 
retreat from Connecticut to Long Island, across the Sound; 
seeing the subject is likely to be learnedly treated by a 
worthy friend and contemporary historian, whom I have fur- 
nished with particulars thereof.* Neither will I say any 
thing of the black man in a three-cornered hat, seated in the 
stern of a jolly-boat, who used to be seen about Hell-gate in 
stormy weather, and who went by the name of the pirate’s 
spuke, (i. e., pirate’s ghost,) and whom, it is said, old Gov- 
ernor Stuyvesant once shot with a silver bullet ; because I 
never could meet with any person of stanch credibility who 
professed to have seen this spectrum, unless it were the 
widow of Manus Conklen, the blacksmith, of Frogsneck ; but 
then, poor woman, she was a little purblind, and might have 
been mistaken ; though they say she saw farther than other 
folks in the dark. 

All this, however, was but little satisfactory in regard to 
the tales of pirates and their buried money, about which I 
was most curious; and the following is all that I could, for a 
long time, collect, that had any thing like an air of authen- 
ticity. 


* For a very interesting and authentic account of the devil and his 
stepping-stones, see the valuable Memoir read before the New York 


Historical Society, since the death of Mr. Knickerbocker, by his friend, 


an eminent jurist of the place. 


1oUD Da THB DhcAY TE. 


N old times, just after the territory of the New-Nether- 

lands had been wrested from the hands of their High 
Mightinesses, the Lords States-General of Holland, by King 
Charles the Second, and while it was as yet in an unquiet 
state, the province was a great resort of random adventurers, 
loose livers, and all that class of hap-hazard fellows who live 
by their wits, and dislike the old-fashioned restraint of law 
and gospel. Among these, the foremost were the buccaneers. 
These were rovers of the deep, who perhaps in time of war 
had been educated in those schools of piracy, the privateers ; 
but having once tasted the sweets of plunder, had ever re- 
tained a hankering after it. There is but a slight step from 
the privateersman to the pirate; both fight for the love of 
plunder ; only that the latter is the bravest, as he dares both 
the enemy and the gallows. 

But in whatever school they had been taught, the bucca- 
neers that kept about the English colonies were daring 
fellows, and made sad work in times of peace among the 
Spanish settlements and Spanish merchantmen. The easy 
access to the harbor of the Manhattoes, the number of hiding- 
places about its waters, and the laxity of its scarcely-organ- 


384 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


ized government, made it a great rendezvous of the pirates ; 
where they might dispose of their booty, and concert new 
depredations. As they brought home with them wealthy 
lading of all kinds, the luxuries of the tropics, and the sump- 
tuous spoils of the Spanish provinces, and disposed of them 
with the proverbial carelessness of freebooters, they were 
welcome visitors to the thrifty traders of the Manhattoes. 
Crews of these desperadoes, therefore, the runagates of every 
country and every clime, might be seen swaggering in open 
day about the streets of the little burgh, elbowing its quiet 
mynheers ; trafficking away their rich outlandish plunder at 
half or quarter price to the wary merchant; and then squan- 
dering their prize-money in taverns, drinking, gambling, sing- 
ing, swearing, shouting, and astounding the neighborhood 
with midnight brawl and ruffian revelry. 

At length these excesses rose to such a height as to be- 
come a scandal to the provinces, and to call loudly for the 
interposition of government. Measures were accordingly 
taken to put a stop to the widely-extended evil, and to ferret 
this vermin brood out of the colonies. 

Among the agents employed to execute this purpose was 
the notorious Captain Kidd. He had long been an equivocal 
character ; one of those nondescript animals of the ocean that 
are neither fish, flesh, nor fowl. He was somewhat of a 
trader, something more of a smuggler, with a considerable 
dash of the picaroon. He had traded for many years among 
the pirates, in a little rakish, musquito-built vessel, that could 
run into all kinds of waters. He knew all their haunts and 


lurking-places; was always hooking about on mysterious 


KIDD THE PIRATE. 385 


voyages, and was as busy as a Mother Cary’s chicken in a 
storm. 

This nondescript personage was pitched upon by govern- 
ment as the very man to hunt the pirates by sea, upon the 
good old maxim of “ setting a rogue to catch a rogue;” or 
as otters are sometimes used to catch their cousins-german, 
the fish. 

Kidd accordingly sailed for New York, in 1695, in a 
gallant vessel called the Adventure Galley, well armed and 
duly commissioned. On arriving at his old haunts, however, 
he shipped his crew on new terms; enlisted a number of his 
old comrades, lads of the knife and the pistol; and then set 
sail for the East. Instead of cruising against pirates, he 
turned pirate himself; steered to the Madeiras, to Bonavista, 
and Madagascar, and cruised about the entrance of the Red 
Sea, Here, among other maritime robberies, he captured a 
rich Quedah merchantman, manned by Moors, though com- 
manded by an Englishman. Kidd would fain have passed 
this off for a worthy exploit, as being a kind of crusade 
against the infidels; but government had long since lost all 
relish for such Christian triumphs. 

After roaming the seas, trafficking his prizes, and chang- 
ing from ship to ship, Kidd had the hardihood to return to 
Boston, laden with booty, with a crew of swaggering com- 
panions at his heels. 

Times, however, were changed. The buccaneers could no 
longer show a whisker in the colonies with impunity. The 
new governor, Lord Bellamont, had signalized himself by his 
zeal in extirpating these offenders; and was doubly exaspe- 

V7 


386 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


rated against Kidd, having been instrumental in appointing 
him to the trust which he had betrayed. No sooner, there- 
fore, did he show himself in Boston, than the alarm was 
given of his reappearance, and measures were taken to arrest 
this cutpurse of the ocean. The daring character which Kidd 
had acquired, however, and the desperate fellows who fol- 
lowed like bull-dogs at his heels, caused a little delay in his 
arrest. He took advantage of this, it is said, to bury the 
greater part of his treasures, and then carried a high 
head about the streets of Boston. He even attempted 
to defend himself when arrested, but was secured and 
thrown into prison, with his followers. Such was the 
formidable character of this pirate, and his crew, that it was 
thought advisable to despatch a frigate to bring them to Eng- 
land. Great exertions were made to screen him from justice, 
but in vain; he and his comrades were tried, condemned, and 
hanged at Execution Dock in London. Kidd died hard, for 
the rope with which he was first tied up broke with his 
weight, and he tumbled to the ground. He was tied up a 
second time, and more effectually ; hence came, doubtless, the 
story of Kidd’s having a charmed life, and that he had to be 
twice hanged. 

Such is the main outline of Kidd’s history; but it has 
given birth to an innumerable progeny of traditions. The 
report of his having buried great treasures of gold and jewels 
before his arrest, set the brains of all the good people along 
the coast in a ferment. There were rumors on rumors of 
great sums of money found here and there, sometimes in one 
part of the country, sometimes in another; of coins with 


KIDD THE PIRATE. 387 


Moorish inscriptions, doubtless the spoils of his eastern 
prizes, but which the common people looked upon with 
superstitious awe, regarding the Moorish letters as diabolical 
or magical characters. 

Some reported the treasure to have been buried in soli- 
tary, unsettled places, about Plymouth and Cape Cod; but 
by degrees various other parts, not only on the eastern coast, 
but along the shores of the Sound, and even of Manhatian 
and Long Island, were gilded by these rumors. In fact, the 
rigorous measures of Lord Bellamont spread sudden conster- 
nation among the buccaneers in every part of the provinces: 
they secreted their money and jewels in lonely out-of-the-way 
places, about the wild shores of the rivers and sea-coast, and 
dispersed themselves over the face of the country. The hand 
of justice prevented many of them from ever returning to re- 
gain their buried treasures, which remained, and remain prob- 
ably to this day, objects of enterprise for the money-digger. 

This is the cause of those frequent reports of trees and 
rocks bearing mysterious marks, supposed to indicate the 
spots where treasures lay hidden; and many have been the 
ransackings after the pirate’s booty. In all the stories which 
once abounded of these enterprises, the devil played a con- 
spicuous part. Hither he was conciliated by ceremonies and 
invocations, or some solemn compact was made with him. 
Still he was ever prone to play the money-diggers some slip- 
pery trick. Some would dig so far as to come to an iron 
chest, when some baffling circumstance was sure to take 
place. Either the earth would fall in and fill up the pit, or 
some direful noise or apparition would frighten the party 


388 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


from the place: sometimes the devil himself would appear, 
and bear off the prize when within their very grasp; and if 
they revisited the place the next day, not a trace would be 
found of their labors of the preceding night. 

All these rumors, however, were extremely yague, and 
for a long time tantalized, without gratifying, my curiosity. 
There is nothing in this world so hard to get at as truth, and 
there is nothing in this world but truth that I care for. I 
sought among all my favorite sources of authentic informa- 
tion, the oldest inhabitants, and particularly the old Dutch 
wives of the province; but though I flatter myself that I am 
better versed than most men in the curious history of my 
native province, yet for a long time my inquiries were unat- 
tended with any substantial result. 

At length it happened that, one calm day in the latter 
part of summer, I was relaxing myself from the toils of 
severe study, by a day’s amusement in fishing in those waters 
which had been the favorite resort of my boyhood. I was in 
company with several worthy burghers of my native city, 
among whom were more than one illustrious member of the 
corporation, whose names, did I dare to mention them, would 
do honor to my humble page. Our sport was indifferent. 
The fish did not bite freely, and we frequently changed our 
fishing-ground without bettering our luck. We were at 
length anchored close under a ledge of rocky coast, on the 
eastern side of the island of Manhatta. It was a still, warm 
day. The stream whirled and dimpled by us, without a 
wave or even a ripple; and every thing was so calm and 
quiet, that it was almost startling when the kingfisher would 


pitch himself from the branch of some high tree, and after 


KIDD THE PIRATF. 389 


suspending himself for a moment in the air, to take his aim, 
would souse into the smooth water after his prey. While 
we were lolling in our boat, half drowsy with the warm still- 
ness of the day, and the dulness of our sport, one of our 
party, a worthy alderman, was overtaken by a slumber, and, 
as he dozed, suffered the sinker of his drop-line to lie upon 
the bottom of the river. On waking, he found he had caught 
something of importance from the weight. On drawing it to 
the surface, we were much surprised to find it a long pistol 
of very curious and outlandish fashion, which, from its rusted 
condition, and its stock being wormeaten and covered with 
barnacles, appeared to have lain a long time under water. 
The unexpected appearance of this document of warfare, 
occasioned much speculation among my pacific companions. 
One supposed it to have fallen there during the revolutionary 
war; another, from the peculiarity of its fashion, attributed 
it to the voyagers in the earliest days of the settlement ; per- 
chance to the renowned Adrian Block, who explored the 
Sound, and discovered Block Island, since so noted for its 
cheese. But a third, after regarding it for some time, pro- 
nounced it to be of veritable Spanish workmanship. 

“Pll warrant,” said he, “if this pistol could talk, it would 
tell strange stories of hard fights among the Spanish Dons. 
I’ve no doubt but it is a relic of the buccaneers of old times 
—who knows but it belonged to Kidd himself?” 

“ Ah! that Kidd was a resolute fellow,” cried an old iron- 
faced Cape Cod whaler.—“ There’s a fine old song about him, 
all to the tune of— 


My name is Captain Kidd, 
As I sailed, as I sailed— 


390 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


And then it tells about how he gained the devil’s good graces 
by burying the Bible: 


I had the Bible in my hand, 
As I sailed, as I sailed, 
And I buried it in the sand, 

As I sailed.— 


“ Odsfish, if I thought this pistol had belonged to Kidd, I 
should set great store by it, for curiosity’s sake. By the 
way, I recollect a story about a fellow who once dug up 
Kidd’s buried money, which was written by a neighbor of 
mine, and which I learnt by heart. As the fish don’t bite 
just now, I'll tell it to you, by way of passing away the 


time.”—And so saying, he gave us the following narration. 


THE DEVIL AND TOM WALKER. 


FEW miles from Boston in Massachusetts, there is a 
deep inlet, winding several miles into the interior of the 
country from Charles Bay, and terminating in a thickly- 
wooded swamp or morass. On one side of this inlet is a beau- 
tiful dark grove; on the opposite side the land rises abruptly 
from the water’s edge into a high ridge, on which grow a few 
scattered oaks of great age and immense size. Under one of 
these gigantic trees, according to old stories, there was a 
great amount of treasure buried by Kidd the pirate. The 
inlet allowed a facility to bring the money in a boat secretly 
and at night to the very foot of the hill; the elevation of the 
place permitted a good look-out to be kept that no one was 
at hand; while the remarkable trees formed good landmarks 
by which the place might easily be found again. The old 
stories add, moreover, that the devil presided at the hiding of 
the money, and took it under his guardianship ; but this, it is 
well known, he always does with buried treasure, particularly 
when it has been ill-gotten. Be that as it may, Kidd never 
returned to recover his wealth; being shortly after seized at 
Boston, sent out to England, and there hanged for a pirate. 
About the year 1727, just at the time that earthquakes 


302 TALES OF A ‘TRAVELLER. 


were prevalent in New England, and shook many tall sinners 
down upon their knees, there lived near this place a meagre, 
miserly fellow, of the name of Tom Walker. He had a wife 
as miserly as himself: they were-so miserly that they even 
conspired to cheat each other. Whatever the woman could 
lay hands on, she hid away; a hen could not cackle but she 
was on the alert to secure the new-laid egg. Her husband 
was continually prying about to detect her secret hoards, and 
many and fierce were the conflicts that took place about what 
ought to have been common property. They lived in a forlorn- 
looking house that stood alone, and had an air of starvation. 
A few straggling savin-trees, emblems of sterility, grew near 
it; no smoke ever curled from its chimney; no traveller 
stopped at its door. A miserable horse, whose ribs were as 
articulate as the bars of a gridiron, stalked about a field, 
where a thin carpet of moss, scarcely covering the ragged 
beds of puddingstone, tantalized and balked his hunger ; and 
sometimes he would lean his head over the fence, look 
piteously at the passer-by, and seem to petition deliverance 
from this land of famine. 

The house and its inmates had altogether a bad name. 
Tom’s wife was a tall termagant, fierce of temper, loud of 
tongue, and strong of arm. Her voice was often heard in 
wordy warfare with her husband; and his face sometimes 
showed signs that their conflicts were not confined to words. 
No one ventured, however, to interfere between them. ‘The 
lonely wayfarer shrunk within himself at the horrid clamor 
and clapper-clawing ; eyed the den of discord askance; and 
hurried on his way, rejoicing, if a bachelor, in his celibacy. 

One day that Tom Walker had been to a distant part of the 


THE DEVIL AND TOM WALKER. 893 


neighborhood, he took what he considered a short cut home- 
ward, through the swamp. Like most short cuts, it was an 
ill-chosen route. The swamp was thickly grown with great 
gloomy pines and hemlocks, some of them ninety feet high, 
which made it dark at noonday, and a retreat for all the owls 
of the neighborhood. It was full of pits and quagmires, 
partly covered with weeds and mosses, where the green sur- 
face often betrayed the traveller into a gulf of black, smother- 
ing mud: there were also dark and stagnant pools, the abodes 
of the tadpole, the bull-frog, and the water-snake ; where the 
trunks of pines and hemlocks lay half-drowned, half-rotting, 
looking like alligators sleeping in the mire. 

Tom had long been picking his way cautiously through 
this treacherous forest ; stepping from tuft to tuft of rushes 
and roots, which afforded precarious footholds among deep 
sloughs ; or pacing carefully, like a cat, along the prostrate 
trunks of trees; startled now and then by the sudden scream- 
ing of the bittern, or the quacking of a wild duck rising on 
the wing from some solitary pool. At length he arrived at a 
firm piece of ground, which ran out like a peninsula into the 
deep bosom of the swamp. It had been one of the strong- 
holds of the Indians during their wars with the first colonists. 
Here they had thrown up a kind of fort, which they had 
looked upon as almost impregnable, and had used as a place 
of refuge for their squaws and children. Nothing remained of 
the old Indian fort but a few embankments, gradually sinking 
to the level of the surrounding earth, and already overgrown 
in part by oaks and other forest trees, the foliage of which 
formed a contrast to the dark pines and hemlocks of the 


swamp. 
Mis 


394 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


It was late in the dusk of evening when Tom Walker 
reached the old fort, and he paused there awhile to rest him- 
self. Any one but he would have felt unwilling to linger in 
this lonely, melancholy place, for the common people had a 
bad opinion of it, from the stories handed down from the 
time of the Indian wars; when it was asserted that the 
savages held incantations here, and made sacrifices to the evil 
spirit. 

Tom Walker, however, was not a man to be troubled 
with any fears of the kind. He reposed himself for some 
time on the trunk of a fallen hemlock, listening to the boding 
ery of the tree-toad, and delving with his walking-staff into a 
mound of black mould at his feet. As he turned up the soil un- 
consciously, his staff struck against something hard. He raked 
it out of the vegetable mould, and lo! a cloven skull, with an 
Indian tomahawk buried deep in it, lay before him. The 
rust on the weapon showed the time that had elapsed since 
this death-blow had been given. It was a dreary memento 
of the fierce struggle that had taken place in this last foothold 
of the Indian warriors. 

“Humph!” said Tom Walker, as he gave it a kick to 
shake the dirt from it. 

“Let that skull alone!” said a gruff voice. Tom lifted 
up his eyes, and beheld a great black man seated directly 
opposite him, on the stump of a tree. He was exceedingly 
surprised, having neither heard nor seen any one approach ; 
and he was still more perplexed on observing, as well as the 
gathering gloom would permit, that the stranger was neither 
negro nor Indian. It is true he was dressed in a rude half 
Indian garb, and had a red belt or sash swathed round his 


THE DEVIL AND TOM WALKER. 3895 


body ; but his face was neither black nor copper-color, but 
swarthy and dingy, and begrimed with soot, as if he had been 
accustomed to toil among fires and forges. He had a shock 
of coarse black hair, that stood out from his head in all direc- 
tions, and bore an axe on his shoulder. 

He scowled for a moment at Tom with a pair of great 
red eyes. | 

“What are you doing on my grounds?” said the black 
man, with a hoarse growling voice. 

“Your grounds!” said Tom with a sneer, “no more 
your grounds than mine; they belong to Deacon Peabody.” 

“ Deacon Peabody be d 
flatter myself he will be, if he does not look more to his own 


sins and less to those of his neighbors. Look yonder, and see 


d,’ said the stranger, “as I 


how Deacon Peabody is faring.” 

Tom looked in the direction that the stranger pointed, 
and beheld one of the great trees, fair and flourishing without, 
but rotten at the core, and saw that it had been nearly hewn 
through, so that the first high wind was likely to blow it 
down. On the bark of the tree was scored the name of 
Deacon Peabody, an eminent man, who had waxed wealthy by 
driving shrewd bargains with the Indians. He now looked 
around, and found most of the tail trees marked with the 
name of some great man of the colony, and all more or less 
scored by the axe. The one on which he had been seated, 
and which had evidently just been hewn down, bore the name 
of Crowninshield ; and he recollected a mighty rich man of 
that name, who made a vulgar display of wealth, which it was 
whispered he had acquired by buccaneering. 

“ He’s just ready for burning!” said the black man, with 


396 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


a growl of triumph. “ You see I am likely to have a good 
stock of firewood for winter.” 

“But what right have you,” said Tom, “to cut down 
Deacon Peabody’s timber ?” 

“The right of a prior claim,” said the other. “This 
woodland belonged to me long before one of your white-faced 
race put foot upon the soil.” 

“ And pray, who are you, if I may be so bold ?” said Tom. 

“Oh, I go by various names. I am the wild huntsman 
in some countries; the black miner in others. In this 
neighborhood I am known by the name of the black woods- 
man. I am he to whom the red men consecrated this spot, 
and in honor of whom they now and then roasted a white 
man, by way of sweet-smelling sacrifice. Since the red men 
have been exterminated by you white savages, 1 amuse my- 
self by presiding at the persecutions of Quakers and  Ana- 
baptists ; [am the great patron and prompter of slave-deal- 
ers, and the grand-master of the Salem witches.” 

“The upshot of all which is, that, if I mistake not,” said 
Tom, sturdily, “ you are he commonly called Old Scratch.” 

“The same, at your service!” replied the black man, 
with a half civil nod. 

Such was the opening of this interview, according to the 
old story; though it has almost too familiar an air to be 
credited. One would think that to meet with such a singular 
personage, in this wild, lonely place, would have shaken any 
man’s nerves; but Tom was a hard-minded fellow, not easily 
daunted, and he had lived so long with a termagant wife, 
that he did not even fear the devil. 

It is said that after this commencement they had a long and 


THE DEVIL AND TOM WALKER. 397 


earnest conversation together, as Tom returned homeward. 
The black man told him of great sums of money buried by 
Kidd the pirate, under the oak-trees on the high ridge, not 
far from the morass. All these were under his command, 
and protected by his power, so that none could find them 
but such as propitiated his favor. These he offered to place 
within Tom Walker’s reach, having conceived an especial 
kindness for him; but they were to be had only on certain 
conditions. What these conditions were may be easily sur- 
mised, though Tom never disclosed them publicly. They 
must have been very hard, for he required time to think of 
them, and he was not a man to stick at trifles when money 
was in view. When they had reached the edge of the 
swamp, the stranger paused—* What proof have I that all 
you have been telling me is true?” said Tom. “ There’s 
my signature,” said the black man, pressing his finger on 
Tom’s forehead. So saying, he turned off among the thickets 
of the swamp, and seemed, as Tom said, to go down, down, 
down, into the earth, until nothing but his head and shoul- 
ders could be seen, and so on, until he totally disappeared. 

When Tom reached home, he found the black print of a 
finger burnt, as it were, into his forehead, which nothing could 
obliterate. 

The first news his wife had to tell him was the sudden 
death of Absalom Crowninshield, the rich buccaneer. It was 
announced in the papers with the usual flourish, that “A 
great man had fallen in Israel.” 

Tom recollected the tree which his black friend had just 


hewn down, and which was ready for burning. “ Let -the 
Ey 


398 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


freebooter roast,” said Tom, “ who cares!” He now felt con- 
vinced that all he had heard and seen was no illusion. 

He was not prone to let his wife into his confidence ; 
but as this was an uneasy secret, he willingly shared it with 
her. All her avarice was awakened at the mention of hidden 
gold, and she urged her husband to comply with the black 
man’s terms, and secure what would make them wealthy for 
life. However Tom might have felt disposed to sell himself 
to the Devil, he was determined not to do so to oblige his wife’; 
so he flatly refused, out of the mere spirit of contradiction. 
Many and bitter were the quarrels they had on the subject ; 
but the more she talked, the more resolute was Tom not to be 
damned to please her. 

At length she determined to drive the bargain on her 
own account, and if she succeeded, to keep all the gain to 
herself. Being of the saine fearless temper as her husband, 
she set off for the old Indian fort towards the close of a 
summer’s day. She was many hours absent. When she 
came back, she was reserved and sullen in her replies. She 
spoke something of a black man, whom she had met about 
twilight, hewing at the root of a tall tree. He was sulky, 
however, and would not come to terms: she was to go 
again with a propitiatory offering, but what it was she for- 
bore to say. 

The next evening she set off again for the swamp, with 
her apron heavily laden. Tom waited and waited for her, 
but in vain; midnight came, but she did not make her ap- 
pearance: morning, noon, night returned, but still she did 
not‘come. Tom now grew uneasy for her safety, especially 
as he found she had carried off in her apron the silver teapot 


THE DEVIL AND TOM WALKER. 399 


and spoons, and every portable article of value. Another night 
elapsed, another morning came; but no wife. In a word, she 
was never heard of more. 

What was her real fate nobody knows, in consequence of 
so many pretending to know. It is one of those facts which 
have become confounded by a variety of historians. Some 
asserted that she lost her way among the tangled mazes of 
the swamp, and sank into some pit or slough; others, more 
uncharitable, hinted that she had eloped with the household 
booty, and made off to some other province; while others 
surmised that the tempter had decoyed her into a dismal 
quagmire, on the top of which her hat was found lying. In 
confirmation of this, it was said a great black man, with an 
axe on his shoulder, was seen late that very evening coming 
out of the swamp, carrying a bundle tied in a check apron, 
with an air of surly triumph. 

The most current and probable story, however, observes, 
that Tom Walker grew so anxious about the fate of his wife 
and his property, that he set out at length to seek them both 
at the Indian fort. During a long summer’s afternoon he 
searched about the gloomy place, but no wife was to be 
seen. He called her name repeatedly, but she was nowhere 
to be heard. The bittern alone responded to his voice, as he 
flew screaming by; or the bull-frog croaked dolefully from a 
neighboring pool. At length, it is said, just in the brown 
hour of twilight, when the owls began to hoot, and the bats 
to flit about, his attention was attracted by the clamor of 
carrion crows hovering about a cypress-tree. He looked up, 
and beheld a bundle tied in a check apron, and hanging in the 
branches of the tree, with a great vulture perched hard by, as 


400 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


if keeping watch upon it. He leaped with joy; for he re- 
cognized his wife’s apron, and supposed it to contain the 
household valuables. 

“Let us get hold of the property,” said he, consolingly to 
himself, “and we will endeavor to do without the woman.” 

As he scrambled up the tree, the vulture spread its wide 
wings, and sailed off screaming into the deep shadows of the 
forest. Ton. seized the checked apron, but woeful sight! 
found nothing but.a heart and liver tied up in it! 

Such, according to this most authentic old story, was all 
that was to be found of Tom’s wife. She had probably at- 
tempted to deal with the black man as she had been accus- 
tomed to deal with her husband; but though a female scold 
is generally considered a match for the devil, yet in this in- 
stance she appears to have had the worst of it. She must 
have died game, however; for it is said Tom noticed many 
prints of cloven feet deeply stamped about the tree, and found 
handfuls of hair, that looked as if they had been plucked from 
the coarse black shock of the woodman. ‘Tom knew his wife’s 
prowess by experience. He shrugged his shoulders, as he 
looked at the signs of a fierce clapper-clawing. “ Egad,” said 
he to himself, “Old Scratch must have had a tough time of 
it!” 

Tom consoled himself for the loss of his property, with 
the loss of his wife, for he was a man of fortitude. He even 
felt something like gratitude towards the black woodman, 
who, he considered, had done him a kindness. He sought, 
therefore, to cultivate a further acquaintance with him, but for 
some time without success; the old black-legs played shy, 


for whatever people may think, he is not always to be had 


THE DEVIL AND TOM WALKER. 401 


for calling for: he knows how to play his cards when pretty 
sure of his game. 

At length, it is said, when delay had whetted Tom’s 
eagerness to the quick, and prepared him to agree to any 
thing rather than not gain the promised treasure, he met the 
black man one evening in his usual woodman’s dress, with 
his axe on his shoulder, sauntering along the swamp, and 
humming a tune. He affected to receive Tom’s advances 
with great indifference, made brief replies, and went on hum- 
ming his tune. 

By degrees, however, Tom brought him to business, and 
they began to haggle about the terms on which the former 
was to have the pirate’s treasure. There was one condition 
which need not be mentioned, being generally understood in 
all cases where the devil grants favors; but there were 
others about which, though of less importance, he was inflex- 
ibly obstinate. He insisted that the money found through 
his means should be employed in his service. He proposed, 
therefore, that Tom should employ it in the black traffick ; 
that is to say, that he should fit out a slave-ship. This, how- 
ever, Tom resolutely refused: he was bad enough in all con- 
science; but the devil himself could not tempt him to turn 
slave-trader. 

Finding Tom so squeamish on this point, he did not in- 
sist upon it, but proposed, instead, that he should turn 
usurer; the devil being extremely anxious for the increase \ 
of usurers, looking upon them as his peculiar people. 

To this no objections were made, for it was just to Tom’s 


taste. 


4.02 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


“ You shall open a broker’s shop in Boston next month,” 
said the black man. 

“T’ll do it to-morrow, if you wish,” said Tom Walker. 

“ You shall lend money at two per cent. a month,” 

“ Egad, ll charge four!” replied Tom Walker. 


“You shall extort bonds, foreclose mortgages, drive the 


99 


merchants to bankruptcy 

“T’ll drive them to the d-——l,” cried Tom Walker. 

“You are the usurer for my money!” said black-legs 
with delight. “ When will you want the rhino?” 

“This very night.” 

“Done!” said the devil. 

“Done!” said Tom Walker.—So they shook hands and 
struck a bargain. 

A few days’ time saw Tom Walker seated behind his | 
desk in a counting-house in Boston. 

His reputation for a ready-moneyed man, who would lend 
money out for a good consideration, soon spread abroad. 
Everybody remembers the time of Governor Belcher, when 
money was particularly scarce. It was a time of paper 
credit. The country had been deluged with government 
bills, the famous Land Bank had been established ; there had 
been a rage for speculating; the people had run mad with 
schemes for new settlements; for building cities in the wil- 
derness ; land-jobbers went about with maps of grants, and 
townships, and Eldorados, lying nobody knew where, but 
which everybody was ready to purchase. In a word, the 
great speculating fever which breaks out every now and then 
in the country, had raged to an alarming degree, and every- 


body was dreaming of making sudden fortunes from nothing. 


THE DEVIL AND TOM WALKER. 403 


As usual the fever had subsided; the dream had gone off, 
and the imaginary fortunes with it; the patients were left in 
doleful plight, and the whole country resounded with the 
consequent cry of “ hard times.” 

At this propitious time of public distress did Tom 
Walker set up as usurer in Boston. His door was soon 
thronged by customers. The needy and adventurous; the 
gambling speculator; the dreaming land-jobber; the thrift- 
less tradesman; the merchant with cracked credit; in short, 
every one driven to raise money by desperate means and 
desperate sacrifices, hurried to Tom Walker. ) 

Thus Tom was the universal friend of the needy, and 
acted like a “friend in need;” that is to say, he always 
exacted good pay and good security. In proportion to the 
distress of the applicant was the hardness of his terms. He 
accumulated bonds and mortgages; gradually squeezed his 
customers closer and closer: and sent them at length, dry as 
a sponge, from his door. 

In this way he made money hand over hand; became a 
rich and mighty man, and exalted his cocked hat upon 
’Change. He built himself, as usual, a vast house, out of 
ostentation ; but left the greater part of it unfinished and 
unfurnished, out of parsimony. He even set up a carriage in 
the fulness of his vainglory, though he nearly starved the 
horses which drew it; and as the ungreased wheels groaned 
and screeched on the axle-trees, you would have thought you 
heard the souls of the poor debtors he was squeezing. 

As Tom waxed old, however, he grew thoughtful. 
Having secured the good things of this world, he began to 
feel anxious about those of the next. He thought with regret 


404 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


on the bargain he had made with his black friend, and set his 
wits to work to cheat him out of the conditions. He became, 
therefore, all of a sudden, a violent church-goer. He prayed 
loudly and strenuously, as if heaven were to be taken by 
force of lungs. Indeed, one might always tell when he had 
sinned most during the week, by the clamor of his Sunday 
devotion. The quiet Christians who had been modestly and 
steadfastly travelling Zionward, were struck with  self-re- 
proach at seeing themselves so suddenly outstripped in their 
career by this new-made convert. Tom was as rigid in 
religious as in money matters; he was a stern supervisor and 
censurer of his neighbors, and seemed to think every sin 
entered up to their account became a credit on his own side of 
the page. He even talked of the expediency of reviving the 
persecution of Quakers and Anabaptists. In a word, Tom’s 
zeal become as notorious as his riches. . 

Still, in spite of all this strenuous attention to forms, 
Tom had a lurking dread that the devil, after all, would have 
his due. That he might not be taken unawares, therefore, 
it is said he always carried a small Bible in his coat-pocket. 
He had also a great folio Bible on his counting-house desk, 
and would frequently be found reading it when people called 
on business; on such occasions he would lay his green 
spectacles in the book, to mark the place, while he turned 
round to drive some usurious bargain. 

Some say that Tom grew alittle crack-brained in his old days, 
and that fancying his end approaching, he had his horse new 
shod, saddled and bridled, and buried with his feet upper- 
most; because he supposed that at the last day the world 
would be turned upside down; in which case he should find 


THE DEVIL AND TOM WALKER. 405 


his horse standing ready for mounting, and he was deter- 
mined at the worst to give his old friend a run for it. This, 
however, is probably a mere old -wives’ fable. If he really 
did take such a precaution, it was totally superfluous; at 
least so says the authentic old legend; which closes his story 
in the following manner. 

One hot summer afternoon in the dog-days, just as a ter- 
rible black thundergust was coming up, Tom sat in his count- 
ing house in his white linen cap and India silk morning-gown. 
He was on the point of. foreclosing a mortgage, by which he 
would complete the ruin of an unlucky land speculator for 
whom he had professed the greatest friendship. The poor 
land-jobber begged him to grant a few months’ indul- 
gence. .-m had grown testy and irritated, and refused 
another day. 

“My family will be ruined, and brought upon the 
parish,” said the land-jobber. “ Charity begins at home,” 
replied Tom; “I must take care of myself in these hard 
times.” 

“ You have made so much money out of me,” said the 
speculator. 

Tom lost his patience and his piety—“ The devil take 
me,” said he, “if I have made a farthing!” 

Just then there were three loud knocks at the street 
door. He stepped out to see who was there. A black man 
was holding a black horse, which neighed and stamped with 
impatience. 

“Tom, youre come for,” said the black fellow, gruffly. 
Tom shrank back, but too late. He had left his little Bible 
at the bottom of his coat-pocket, and his big Bible on the desk 


406 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


buried under the mortgage he was about to foreclose: never 
was sinner taken more unawares. The black man whisked 
him like a child into the saddle, gave the horse the lash, and 
away he galloped, with Tom on his back, in the midst of the 
thunderstorm. ‘The clerks stuck their pens behind their ears, 
and stared after him from the windows. Away went Tom 
Walker, dashing down the streets ; his white cap bobbing up 
and down; his morning-gown fluttering in the wind, and his 
steed striking fire out of the pavement at every bound. 
When the clerks turned to look for the black man he had 
disappeared. 

Tom Walker never returned to foreclose the mortgage. 
A countryman who lived on the border of the swamp, re- 
ported that in the height of the thundergust he had heard a 
great clattering of hoofs and a howling along the road, and 
running to the window caught sight of a figure, such as I have 
described, on a horse that galloped like mad across the fields, 
over the hills, and down into the black hemlock swamp 
towards the old Indian fort ; and that shortly after a thunder- 
bolt falling in that direction seemed to set the whole forest 
in a blaze. 

The good people of Boston shook their heads and shrug- 
ged their shoulders, but had been so much accustomed to 
witches and goblins, and tricks of the devil, in all kinds of 
shapes, from the first settlement of the colony, that they were 
not so much horror-struck as might have been expected. 
Trustees were appointed to take charge of Tom’s effects. 
There was nothing, however, to administer upon. On 
searching his coffers all his bonds and mortgages were found 


reduced to cinders. In place of gold and silver his iron 


THE DEVIL AND TOM WALKER. 407 


chest was filled with chips and shavings; two skeletons lay 
in his stable instead of his halfstarved horses, and the very 
next day his great house took fire and was burnt to the 
ground, 

Such was the end of Tom Walker and his ill-gotten 
wealth. Let all griping money-brokers lay this ‘story to 
heart. The truth of it isnot to be doubted. The very hole un- 
der the oak-trees, whence he dug Kidd’s money, is to be seen 
to this day ; and the neighboring swamp and old Indian fort are 
often haunted in stormy nights by a figure on horseback, in 
morning-gown and white cap, which is doubtless the troubled 
spirit of the usurer. In fact, the story has resolved itself 
into a proverb, and is the origin of that popular saying, so 
prevalent throughout New England, of “ The Devil and Tom 
Walker.” 


Such, as nearly as I can recollect, was the purport of the 
tale told by the Cape Cod whaler. There were divers trivial 
particulars which I have omitted, and which whiled away the 
morning very pleasantly, until the time of tide favorable to 
fishing being passed, it was proposed to land, and refresh 
ourselves under the trees, till the noontide heat should have 
abated. 

We accordingly landed on a delectable part of the island 
of Manhatta, in that shady and embowered tract formerly 
under the domain of the ancient family of the Hardenbrooks. 
It was a spot well known to me in the course of the aquatic 


expeditions of my boyhood. Not far from where we landed 


A08 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


there was an old Dutch family vault, constructed in the side 
of a bank, which had been an object of great awe and fable 
among my schoolboy associates. We had peeped into it 
during one of our coasting voyages, and been startled by the 
sight of mouldering coffins and musty bones within; but 
what had given it the most fearful interest in our eyes, was 
its being in some way connected with the pirate wreck which 
lay rotting among the rocks of Hell-gate. There were 
stories also of smuggling connected with it, particularly relat- 
ing to a time when this retired spot was owned by a noted 
burgher, called Ready Money Provost; a man of whom it 
was whispered that he had many mysterious dealings with 
parts beyond the seas. All these things, however, had_been 
jumbled together in our minds in that vague way in which 
such themes are mingled up in the tales of boyhood. 

While I was pondering upon these matters, my com- 
panions had spread a repast, from the contents of our well- 
stored pannier, under a broad chestnut, on the greensward 
which swept down to the water’s edge. Here we solaced 
ourselves on the cool grassy carpet during the warm sunny 
hours of mid-day. While lolling on the grass, indulging in 
that kind of musing reverie of which I am fond, I summoned 
up the dusky recollections of my boyhood respecting this 
place, and repeated them like the imperfectly remembered 
traces of a dream, for the amusement of my companions. 
When I had finished, a worthy old burgher, John Josse Van- 
dermoere, the same who once related to me the adventures 
of Dolph Heyliger, broke silence, and observed, that he 
recollected a story of money-digging, which occurred in this 


very neighborhood, and might account for some of the 


THE DEVIL AND TOM WALKER. 40 


traditions which I had heard in my boyhood. As we knew 
him to be one of the most authentic narrators in the province, 
we begged him to let us have the particulars, and accordingly, 
while we solaced ourselves with a clean long pipe of Blase 
Moore’s best tobacco, the authentic John Josse Vandermoere 
related the following tale. 


18 


WOLFERT WEBBER, OR GOLDEN 
DREAMS. 


te the year of grace one thousand seven hundred and— 

blank—for I do not remember the precise date; however, 
it was somewhere in the early part of the last century, there 
lived in the ancient city of the Manhattoes a worthy burgher, 
Wolfert Webber by name. He was descended from old 
Cobus Webber of the Brille in Holland, one of the original 
settlers, famous for introducing the cultivation of cabbages, 
and who came over to the province during the protectorship 
of Oloffe Van Kortlandt, otherwise called the Dreamer. 

The field in which Cobus Webber first planted himself 
and his cabbages had remained ever since in the family, who 
continued in the same line of husbandry, with that praise- 
worthy perseverance for which our Dutch burghers are noted. 
The whole family genius, during several generations, was 
devoted to the study and development of this one noble 
vegetable ; and to this concentration of intellect may doubt- 
less be ascribed the prodigious renown to which the Webber 
cabbages attained. 

The Webber dynasty continued in uninterrupted succes- 


sion; and never did a line give more unquestionable proofs 


-‘WOLFERT WEBBER. 411 


of legitimacy. The eldest son succeeded to the looks, as well 
as the territory of his sire; and had the portraits of this line 
of tranquil potentates been taken, they would have presented 
a row of heads marvellously resembling in shape and magni- 
tude the vegetables over which they reigned. 

The seat of government continued unchanged in the fam- 
ily mansion :—a Dutch-built house, with a front, or rather 
gable-end of yellow brick, tapering to a point, with the cus- 
tomary iron weathercock at the top. Every thing about the 
building bore the air of long-settled ease and security. 
Flights of martins peopled the little coops nailed against its 
walls, and swallows built their nests under the eaves; and 
every one knows that these house-loving birds bring good 
luck to the dwelling where they take up their abode. In a 
bright summer morning in early summer, it was delectable 
to hear their cheerful notes, as they sported about in the pure 
sweet air, chirping forth, as it were, the greatness and pros- 
perity of the Webbers. 

Thus quietly and comfortably did this excellent family 
vegetate under the shade of a mighty button-wood tree, which 
by little and little grew so great as entirely to overshadow 
their palace. The city gradually spread its suburbs round 
their domain. Houses sprang up to interrupt their prospects. 
The rural lanes in the vicinity began to grow into the bustle 
and populousness of streets; in short, with all the habits of 
rustic life they began to find themselves the inhabitants of a 
city. Still, however, they maintained their hereditary 
character, and hereditary possessions, with all the tenacity 
of petty German princes in the midst of the empire. Wol- 
fert was the last of the line, and succeeded to the patriarchal 


412 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


bench at the door, under the family tree, and swayed the 
sceptre of his fathers, a kind of rural potentate in the midst 
of the metropolis. | 

To share the cares and sweets of sovereignty, he had taken 
unto himself a helpmate, one of that excellent kind, called 
stirring women; that is to say, she was one of those notable 
little housewives who are always busy where there is nothing 
to do. Her activity, however, took one particular direction ; 
her whole life seemed devoted to intense knitting; whether 
at home or abroad, walking or sitting, her needles were con- 
tinually in motion, and it is even affirmed that by her un- 
wearied industry she very nearly supplied her household 
with stockings throughout the year. This worthy couple 
were blessed with one daughter, who was brought up with 
great tenderness and care; uncommon pains had been taken 
with her education, so that she could stitch in every variety 
of way; make all kinds of pickles and preserves, and mark 
her own name on a sampler. The influence of her taste was 
seen also in the family garden, where the ornamental began 
to mingle with the useful; whole rows of fiery marigolds and 
splendid hollyhocks bordered the cabbage-beds ; and gigantic 
sunflowers lolled their broad jolly faces over the fences, seem- 
ing to ogle most affectionately the passers-by. 

Thus reigned and vegetated Wolfert Webber over his 
paternal acres, peacefully and contentedly. Not but that, 
like all other sovereigns, he had his occasional cares and vex- 
ations. The growth of his native city sometimes caused him 
annoyance. His little territory gradually became hemmed 
in by streets and houses, which intercepted air and sunshine. 


He was now and then subjected to the irruptions of the 


WOLFERT WEBBER. 413 


border population that infest the streets of a metropolis ; 
who would make midnight forays into his dominions, and 
carry off captive whole platoons of his noblest subjects. 
Vagrant swine would make a descent, too, now and then, 
when the gate was left open, and lay all waste before them ; 
and mischievous urchins would decapitate the illustrious sun- 
flowers, the glory of the garden, as they lolled their heads so 
fondly over the walls. Still all these were petty grievances, 
which might now and then ruffle the surface of his mind, as a 
summer breeze will ruffle the surface of a mill-pond; but 
they could not disturb the deep-seated quiet of his soul. He 
would but seize a trusty staff, that stood behind the door, 
issue suddenly out, and anoint the back of the aggressor, 
whether pig or urchin, and then return within doors, marvel- 
lously refreshed and tranquillized. 

The chief cause of anxiety to honest Wolfert, however, 
was the growing prosperity of the city. The expenses of 
living doubled and trebled; but he could not double and 
treble the magnitude of his cabbages; and the number of 
competitors prevented the increase of price; thus, therefore, 
while every one around him grew richer, Wolfert grew 
poorer, and he could not, for the life of him, perceive how the 
evil was to be remedied. : 

This growing care, which increased from day to day, had 
its gradual effect upon our worthy burgher ; insomuch, that 
it at length implanted two or three wrinkles in his brow; 
things unknown before in the family of the Webbers ; and it 
seemed to pinch up the corners of his cocked hat intv an ex- 
pression of anxiety, totally opposite to the tranquil, broad- 


brimmed, low-crowned beavers of his illustrious progenitors. 


414 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


Perhaps even this would not have materially disturbed 
the serenity of his mind, had he had only himself and his wife 
to care for; but there was his daughter gradually growing to 
maturity ; and all the world knows that when daughters 
begin to ripen, no fruit nor flower requires so much looking 
after. I have no talent at describing female charms, else fain 
would I depict the progress of this little Dutch beauty. 
How her blue eyes grew deeper and deeper, and her cherry 
lips redder and redder; and how she ripened and ripened, 
and rounded and rounded in the opening breath of sixteen 
summers, until, in her seventeenth spring, she seemed ready 
to burst out of her bodice, like a half blown rose-bud. 

Ah, well-a-day ! could I but show her as she was then, 
tricked out on a Sunday morning, in the hereditary finery of 
the old Dutch clothes-press, of which her mother had con- 
fided to her the key. The wedding-dress of her grandmother, 
modernized for use, with sundry ornaments, handed down as 
heirlooms in the family. Her pale brown hair smoothed 
with buttermilk in flat waving lines on each side of her fair 
forehead. ‘The chain of yellow virgin gold, that encircled her 
neck; the little cross, that just rested at the entrance of a soft 
valley of happiness, as if it would sanctify the place. The— 
but, pooh !—it is not for an old man like me to be prosing 
about female beauty " suffice it to say, Amy had attained her 
seventeenth year. Long since had her sampler exhibited 
hearts in couples desperately transfixed with arrows, and true 
lovers’ knots worked in deep blue silk; and it was evident 
she began to languish for some more interesting occupation 
than the rearing of sunflowers or pickling of cucumbers. © 

At this critical period of female existence, when the heart 


WOLFERT WEBBER. 415 


within a damsel’s bosom, like its emblem, the miniature 
which hangs without, is apt to be engrossed by a single 
image, a new visitor began to make his appearance under the 
roof of Wolfert Webber. ‘This was Dirk Waldron, the only 
son of a poor widow, but who could boast of more fathers 
than any lad in the province; for his mother had had four 
husbands, and this only child; so that though born in her last 
wedlock, he might fairly claim to be the tardy fruit of a long 
course of cultivation. This son of four fathers, united the 
merits and the vigor of all his sires. If he had not had a 
great family before him, he seemed likely to have a great one 
after him; for you had only to look at the fresh bucksome 
youth, to see that he was formed to be the founder of a 
mighty race. 

This youngster gradually became an intimate visitor of 
the family. He talked little, but he sat long. He filled the 
father’s pipe when it was empty, gathered up the mother’s 
knitting-needle, or ball of worsted when it fell to the ground ; 
stroked the sleek coat of the tortoise-shell cat, and replen- 
ished the teapot for the daughter from the bright copper 
kettle that sang before the fire. All these quiet little offices 
may seem of trifling import; but when true love is trans- 
lated into Low Dutch, it is in this way that it eloquently 
expresses itself. They were not lost upon the Webber fam- 
ily. The winning youngster found marvellous favor in the 
eyes of the mother; the tortoise-shell cat, albeit the most 
staid and demure of her kind, gave indubitable signs of ap- 
probation of his visits, the teakettle seemed to sing out a 
cheering note of welcome at his approach, and if the sly 


glances of the daughter might be rightly read, as she sat 


416 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


bridling and dimpling, and sewing by her. mother’s side, she 
was not a whit behind Dame Webber, or grimalkin, or the 
teakettle, in good will. 

W olfert alone saw nothing of what was going on. Pro- 
foundly wrapt up in meditation on the growth of the city and 
his cabbages, he sat looking in the fire, and puffing his pipe in 
silence. One night, however, as the gentle Amy, according 
to custom, lighted her lover to the outer door, and he, 
according to custom, took his parting salute, the smack re- 
sounded so vigorously through the long, silent entry, as to 
startle even the dull ear of Wolfert. He was slowly roused 
to a new source of anxiety. It had never entered into his 
head that this mere child, who, as it seemed, but the other 
day had been climbing about his knees, and playing with 
dolls and baby-houses, could all at once be thinking of lovers 
and matrimony. He rubbed his eyes, examined into the fact, 
and really found that while he had been dreaming of other 
matters, she had actually grown to be a woman, and what 
was worse, had fallen in love. Here arose new cares for 
Wolfert. He was a kind father, but he was a prudent man. 
The young man was a lively, stirring lad; but then he had 
neither money nor land. Wolfert’s ideas all ran in one 
channel ; and he saw no alternative in case of a marriage, but 
to portion off the young couple with a corner of his cabbage 
garden, the whole of which was barely sufficient for the 
support of his family. —- 

Like a prudent father, therefore, he determined to nip this 
passion in the bud, and forbade the youngster the house ; 
though sorely did it go against his fatherly heart, and many a 
silent tear did it cause in the bright eye of his daughter. 


WOLFERT WEBBER. Ga 


She showed herself, however, a pattern of filial piety and 
obedience. She never pouted and sulked; she never flew in 
the face of parental authority ; she never flew into a passion, 
nor fell into hysterics, as many romantic novel-read young 
ladies would do. Not she, indeed! She was none such 
heroical rebellious trumpery, I’ll warrant ye. On the con- 
trary, she acquiesced like an obedient daughter, shut the 
street door in her lover’s face, and if ever she did grant him 
an interview, it was either out of the kitchen window, or over 
the garden fence. 

Wolfert was deeply cogitating these matters in his mind, 
and his brow wrinkled with unusual care, as he wended his 
way one Saturday afternoon to a rural inn, about two miles 
from the city. It was a favorite resort of the Dutch part of 
the community, from being always held by a Dutch line of 
landlords, and retaining an air and relish of the good old 
times. It was a Dutch-built house, that had probably been a 
country seat of some opulent burgher in the early time of the 
settlement. It stood near a point of land, called Corlear’s 
Hook, which stretches out into the Sound, and against which 
the tide, at its flux and reflux, sets with extraordinary rapid- 
ity. The venerable and somewhat crazy mansion was distin- 
guished from afar, by a grove of elms and sycamores that 
seemed to wave a hospitable invitation, while a few weeping- 
willows, with their dank, drooping foliage, resembling fallen 
waters, gave an idea of coolness, that rendered it an attractive 
spot during the heats of summer. 

Here, therefore, as I said, resorted many of the old inhab- 
itants of the Manhattoes, where, while some played at shuffle- 

18* 


418 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


board and quoits and ninepins, others smoked a deliberate 
pipe, and talked over public affairs. 

It was on a blustering autumnal afternoon that Wolfert 
made his visit to the inn. The grove of elms and willows 
was stripped of its leaves, which whirled in rustling eddies 
about the fields. The nine-pin alley was deserted, for the 
premature chilliness of the day had driven the company 
within doors. As it was Saturday afternoon, the habitual 
club was in session, composed principally of regular Dutch 
burghers, though mingled occasionally with persons of various 
character and country, as is natural in a place of such motley 
population. 

Beside the fireplace, in a huge leather-bottomed arm-chair, 
sat the dictator of this little world, the venerable Rem, or as 
it was pronounced, Ramm Rapelye. He was a man of Wal- 
loon race, and illustrious for the antiquity of his line; his 
great-grandmother having been the first white child born in 
the province. But he was still more illustrious for his 
wealth and dignity: he had long filled the noble office of 
alderman, and was a man to whom the governor himself took 
off his hat. He had maintained possession of the leather- 
bottomed chair from time immemorial ; and had gradually 
“waxed in bulk as he sat in his seat of government, until in 
the course of years he filled its whole magnitude. His word 
was decisive with his subjects ; for he was so rich a man, that 
he was never expected to support any opinion by argument. 
The landlord waited on him with peculiar officiousness ; not 
that he paid better than his neighbors, but then the coin of a 
rich man seems always to be so much more acceptable. 
The landlord had ever a pleasant word and a joke, to insin- 


WOLFERT WEBBER. - 419 


uate in the ear of the august Ramm. It is true, Ramm never 
laughed, and, indeed, ever maintained a mastifflike gravity, 
and even surliness of aspect; yet he now and then rewarded 
mine host with a token of approbation ; which though noth- 
ing more nor less than a kind of grunt, still delighted the 
landlord more than a broad laugh from a poorer man. 

“This will be a rough night for the money-diggers,” said 
mine host, as a gust of wind howled round the house, and 
rattled at the windows. : 

“ What! are they at their works again?” said an English 
half-pay captain, with one eye, who was a very frequent at- 
tendant at the inn. 

“ Aye, are they,” said the landlord, “ and well may they 
be. They’ve had luck of late. They say a great pot of 
money has been dug up in the fields, just behind Stuyve- 
sant’s orchard. Folks think it must have been buried there 
in old times, by Peter Stuyvesant, the Dutch governor.” 

“Fudge!” said the one-eyed man of war, as he added a 
small portion of water to a bottom of brandy. 

“ Well, you may believe it or not as you please,’ said 
mine host, somewhat nettled; “ but every body knows that 
the old governor buried a great deal of his money at the time 
of the Dutch troubles, when the English red coats seized on 
the province. They say, too, the old gentleman walks; aye, 
and in the very same dress that he wears in the picture that 
hangs up in the family house.” 

“ Fudge!” said the half-pay officer. 

“ Fudge, if you please !—But didn’t Corney Van Zandt 
see him at midnight, stalking about in the meadow with his 


wooden leg, and a drawn sword in his hand, that flashed like 


AAO s.. “TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


fire? And what can he be walking for, but because people 
have been troubling the place where he buried his money in 
old times?” 

Here the landlord was interrupted by several guttural 
sounds from Ramm Rapelye, betokening that he was labor- 
ing with the unusual production of an idea. As he was too 
great a man to be slighted by a prudent publican, mine host 
respectfully paused until he should deliver himself. The 
corpulent frame of this mighty burgher now gave all the 
symptoms of a volcanic mountain on the point of an eruption. 
First, there was a certain heaving of the abdomen, not unlike 
an earthquake; then was emitted a cloud of tobacco-smoke 
from that crater, his mouth; then there was a kind of rattle 
in the throat, as if the idea were working. its way up through 
a region of phlegm; then there were several disjointed mem- 
bers of a sentence thrown out, ending in a cough; at length 
his voice forced its way into a slow, but absolute tone of a 
man who feels the weight of his purse, if not of his ideas ; 
every portion of his speech being marked by a testy puff of 
tobacco-smoke. 

“ Who talks of old Peter Stuyvesant’s walking ?—puff— 
Have people no respect for persons ?—puff—puff—Peter 
Stuyvesant knew better what to do with his money than to 
bury it—puff—I know the Stuyvesant family—puff—every 
one of them—puff—not a more respectable family in the 
province—puff—old standards—puff—warm householders— 
puff—none of your upstarts—puff—puff—puff.i—Don’t talk 
to me of Peter Stuyvesant’s walking—puff—puff—puff— 
puff.” 

Here the redoubtable Ramm contracted his brow, clasped 


| 


7 
i ol) a 


WOLFERT WEBBER. 421 


up his mouth, till it wrinkled at each corner, and redoubled 
his smoking with such vehemence, that the cloudy volumes 
soon wreathed round his head, as the smoke envelopes the 
awful summit of Mount Etna. 

A general silence followed the sudden rebuke of this very 
rich man. The subject, however, was too interesting to be 
readily abandoned. ‘The conversation soon broke forth again 
from the lips of Peechy Prauw Van Hook, the chronicler of 
the club, one of those prosing, narrative old men who seem 
to be troubled with an incontinence of words, as they grow 
old. 

Peechy could, at any time, tell as many stories in an even- 
ing as his hearers could digest ina month. He now resumed 
the conversation, by affirming that, to his knowledge, money 
had, at different times, been digged up in various parts of the 
island. The lucky persons who had discovered them had al- 
ways dreamt of them three times beforehand, and what was 
worthy of remark, those treasures had never been found but 
by some descendant of the good old Dutch families, which 
clearly proved that they had been buried by Dutchmen in 
the olden time. 

“ Fiddlestick with your Dutchmen!” cried the half-pay 
officer. “The Dutch had nothing to do with them. They 
were all buried by Kidd the pirate, and his crew.” 

Here a key-note was touched that roused the whole com- 
pany. The name of Captain Kidd was like a talisman in 
those times, and was associated with a thousand marvellous 
stories. 


The half-pay officer took the lead, and in his narrations 
18* 


429, TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


fathered upon Kidd all the plunderings and exploits of Mor- 
gan, Blackbeard, and the whole list of bloody buccaneers. 

The officer was a man of great weight among the peace. 
able members of the club, by reason of his warlike character 
and gunpowder tales. All his golden stories of Kidd, how- 
ever, and of the booty he had buried, were obstinately 
rivalled by the tales of Peechy Prauw, who, rather than 
suffer his Dutch progenitors to be eclipsed by a foreign free- 
booter, enriched every field and shore in the neighborhood 
with the hidden wealth of Peter Stuyvesant and his contem- 
poraries. 

Not a word of this conversation was lost upon Wolfert 
Webber. He returned pensively home, full of magnificent 
ideas. The soil of his native island seemed to be turned into 
gold dust; and every field to teem with treasure. His head 
almost reeled at the thought how often he must have heed- 
lessly rambled over places where countless sums lay, 
scarcely covered by the turf beneath his feet. His mind was 
in an uproar with this whirl of new ideas. As he came in 
sight of the venerable mansion of his forefathers, and the 
little realm where the Webbers had so long, and so content- 
edly flourished, his gorge rose at the narrowness of his des- 
tiny. 

“Unlucky Wolfert!” exclaimed he; “others can go to bed 
and dream themselves into whole mines of wealth; they have 
but to seize a spade in the morning, and turn up doubloons 
like potatoes ; but thou must dream of hardships, and rise to 
poverty—must dig thy field from year’s end to year’s end, 
and yet raise nothing but cabbages ! ” 

Wolfert Webber went to bed with a heavy heart ; and it 


” 


7 oP  =cer “a 


ee ee 


ee A ee eS ee Se 


E>, Ram 


WOLFERT WEBBER. Bee 2 r9) 


was long before the golden visions that disturbed his brain 
permitted him to sink into repose. The same visions, how- 
ever, extended into his sleeping thoughts, and assumed a more 
definite form. He dreamt that he had discovered an im- 
mense treasure in the centre of his garden. At every stroke 
of the spade he laid bare a golden ingot; diamond crosses 
sparkled out of the dust; bags of money turned up their 
bellies, corpulent with pieces-of-eight, or venerable doub- 
loons ; and chests, wedged close with moidores, ducats, and 
pistareens, yawned before his ravished eyes, and vomited 
forth their glittering contents. 

Wolfert awoke a poorer man than ever. He had no 
heart to go about his daily concerns, which appeared so 
paltry and profitless; but sat all day long in the chimney 
corner, picturing to himself ingots and heaps of gold in the 
fire. The next night his dream was repeated. He was again 
in his garden, digging, and laying open stores of hidden 
wealth. There was something very singular in this repeti- 
tion. He passed another day of reverie, and though it was 
cleaning day, and the house, as usual in Dutch households, 
completely topsy-turvy, yet he sat unmoved amidst the gen- 
eral uproar. 

‘The third night he went to bed with a palpitating heart. 
He put on his red night-cap wrong side outwards, for good 
luck. It was deep midnight before his anxious mind could 
settle itself into sleep. Again the golden dream was re- 
peated, and again he saw his garden teerning with ingots and 
money-bags. 

Wolfert rose the next morning in complete bewilderment. 


494 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


A dream, three times repeated, was never known to lie; and 
if so, his fortune was made. 

In his agitation he put on his waistcoat with the hind part 
before, and this was a corroboration of good luck. He no 
longer doubted that a huge store of money lay buried some- 
where in his cabbage field, coyly waiting to be sought for; 
and he repined at having so long been scratching about the 
surface of the soil instead of digging to the centre. 

He took his seat at the breakfast table full of these specu- 
lations ; asked his daughter to put a lump of gold into his 
tea, and on handing his wife a plate of slap-jacks, begged her 
to help herself to a doubloon. 

His grand care now was how -to secure this immense 
treasure without its being known. Instead of his working 
regularly in his grounds in the daytime, he now stole from 
his bed at night, and with spade and pickaxe, went to work to 
rip up and dig about his paternal acres, from one end to the 
other. In a little time the whole garden, which had pre- 
sented such a goodly and regular appearance, with its phalanx 
of cabbages, like a vegetable army in battle array, was 
reduced to a scene of devastation; while the relentless Wol- 
fert, with night-cap on head, and lantern and spade in hand, 
stalked through the slaughtered ranks, the destroying angel 
of his own vegetable world. 

Every morning bore testimony to the ravages of the pre- 
ceding night in cabbages of all ages and conditions, from the 
tender sprout to the full-grown head, piteously rooted from 
their quiet beds like worthless weeds, and left to wither in 
the sunshine. In vain Wolfert’s wife remonstrated ; in vain 


his darling daughter wept over the destruction of some 


WOLFERT WEBBER. 425 


favorite marigold. ‘Thou shalt have gold of another guess 
sort,” he would cry, chucking her under the chin; “thou 
shalt have a string of crooked ducats for thy wedding neck- 
lace, my child.” His family began really to fear that the 
poor man’s wits were diseased. He muttered in his sleep 
at night about mines of wealth, about pearls and diamonds, 
and bars of gold. In the daytime he was moody and ab- 
stracted, and walked about as if in a trance. Dame Webber 
held frequent councils with all the old women of the neigh- 
borhood ; scarce an hour in the day but a knot of them might 
be seen wagging their white caps together round her door, 
while the poor woman made some piteous recital. The 
daughter, too, was fain to seek for more frequent consolation 
from the stolen interviews of her favored swain, Dirk Wal- 
dron. The delectable little Dutch songs, with which she used 
to dulcify the house, grew less and less frequent, and she 
would forget her sewing, and Jook wistfully in her father’s 
face as he sat pondering by the fireside. Wolfert caught her 
eye one day fixed on him thus anxiously, and for a moment 
was roused from his golden reveries.—‘ Cheer up, my girl,” 
said he, exultingly, “ why dost thou droop ?—thou shalt hold 
up thy head one day with the Brinckerhoffs, and the Scher- 
merhorns, the Van Hornes, and the Van Dams.—By Saint 
Nicholas, but the patroon himself shall be glad to get thee for 
his son !” 

Amy shook her head at his vainglorious boast, and was 
more than ever in doubt of the soundness of the good man’s 
intellect. 

In the mean time Wolfert went on digging and digging ; 
but the field was extensive, and as his dream had indicated 


496 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


no precise spot, he had to dig at random. The winter 
set in before one-tenth of the scene of promise had been ex- 
plored. 

The ground became frozen hard, and the nights too cold 
for the labors of the spade. ) 

No sooner, however, did the returning warmth of spring 
loosen the soil, and the small frogs begin to pipe in the 
meadows, but Wolfert resumed his labors with renovated 
zeal, Still, however, the hours of industry were reversed. 

Instead of working cheerily all day, planting and setting 
out his vegetables, he remained thoughtfully idle, until the 
shades of night summoned him to his secret labors. In this 
way he continued to dig from night to night, and week to 
week, and month to month, but not a stiver did he find. On 
the contrary, the more he digged, the poorer he grew. The 
rich soil of his garden was digged away, and the sand and 
gravel from beneath was thrown to the surface, until the 
whole field presented an aspect of sandy barrenness. 

In the mean time, the seasons gradually rolled on. The 
little frogs which had piped in the meadows in early spring, 
croaked as bull-frogs during the summer heats, and then sank 
into silence. The peach-tree budded, blossomed, and bore its 
fruit. The swallows and martins came, twitted about the 
roof, built their nests, reared their young, held their congress 
along the eaves, and then winged their flight in search of 
another spring. The caterpillar spun its winding-sheet, 
dangled in it from the great button-wood tree before the 
house ; turned into a moth, fluttered with the last sunshine of 
summer, and disappeared; and finally the leaves of the 
button-wood tree turned yellow, then brown, then rustled one 


WOLFERT WEBBER: 427 


by one to the ground, and whirling about in little eddies of 
wind and dust, whispered that winter was at hand. 

Wolfert gradually woke from his dream of wealth as the 
year declined. He had reared no crop for the supply of his 
household during the sterility of winter. The season was 
long and severe, and for the first time the family was really 
straitened in its comforts. By degrees a revulsion of thought 
took place in Wolfert’s mind, common to those whose golden 
dreams have been disturbed by pinching realities. The 
idea gradually stole upon him that he should come to want. 
He already considered himself one of the most unfortunate 
men in the province, having lost such an incalculable amount 
of undiscovered treasure, and now, when thousands of pounds 
had eluded his search, to be perplexed for shillings and pence, 
was cruel in the extreme. 

Haggard care gathered about his brow; he went about 


with a money-seeking air, his eyes bent downwards into the 


_ dust, and carrying his hands in his pockets, as men are apt to 


do when they have nothing else to put into them. He could 
not even pass the city almshouse without giving it a rueful 
glance, as if destined to be his future abode. 

The strangeness of his conduct and of his looks occasioned 
much speculation and remark. Tor a long time he was sus- 
pected of being crazy, and then every body pitied him; and 
at length it began to be suspected that he was poor, and then 
every body avoided him. | 

The rich old burghers of his acquaintance met him outside 
of the door when he called, entertained him hospitably on 
the threshold, pressed him warmly by the hand at parting, 
shook their heads as he walked away, with the kind-hearted 


498 TALES OF A> TRAVELLER. 


expression of “ poor Wolfert,’ and turned a corner nimbly 
if by chance they saw him approaching as they walked the 
streets. Even the barber and the cobbler of the neighbor- 
hood, and a tattered tailor in an alley hard by, three of the 
poorest and merriest rogues in the world, eyed him with that 
abundant sympathy which usually attends a lack of means; 
and there is not a doubt but their pockets would have been at 
his command, only that they happened to be empty. 

Thus every body deserted the Webber mansion, as if 
poverty were contagious, like the plague; every body but 
honest Dirk Waldron, who still kept up his stolen visits to 
the daughter, and indeed seemed to wax more affectionate as 
the fortunes of his mistress were in the wane. 

Many months had elapsed since Wolfert had frequented 
his old resort, the rural inn. He was taking a long lonely 
walk one Saturday afternoon, musing over his wants and 
disappointments, when his feet took instinctively their wonted 
direction, and on awaking out of a reverie, he found himself 
before the door of the inn. For some moments he hesitated 
whether to enter, but his heart yearned for companionship ; 
and where can a ruined man find better companionship than 
at a tavern, where there is neither sober example nor sober 
advice to put him out of countenance ? 

Wolfert found several of the old frequenters of ine’ inn 
at their usual posts, and seated in their usual places; but one 
was missing, the great Ramm Rapelye, who for many years 
had filled the leather-bottomed chair of state. His place was 
supplied by a stranger, who seemed, however, completely at 
home in the chair and the tavern. He was rather under 


size, but deep chested, square, and muscular. His broad 


a 


WOLKERT WEBBER. 429 


shoulders, double joints, and bow knees, gave tokens of 
prodigious strength. His face was dark and weather beaten ; 
a deep scar, as if from the slash of a cutlass, had almost 
divided his nose, and made a gash in his upper lip, through 
which his teeth shone like a bull-dog’s. A mop of iron gray 
hair gave a grisly finish to this hard favored visage. His 
dress was of an amphibious character. He wore an old hat 
edged with tarnished lace, and cocked in martial style, on one 
side of his head; a rusty blue military coat with brass 
buttons, and a wide pair of short petticoat trowsers, or rather 
breeches, for they were gathered up at the knees. He 
ordered every body about him with an authoritative air; talk- 
ing in a brattling voice, that sounded like the crackling of 
thorns under a pot; d——d the landlord and _ servants 
with perfect impunity, and was waited upon with greater 
obsequiousness than had ever been shown to the mighty 
Ramm himself. 

Wolfert’s curiosity was awakened to know who and what 
was this stranger, who had thus usurped absolute sway in 
this ancient domain. Peechy Prauw took him aside, into a 
remote corner of the hall, and there, in an under voice, and 
with great caution, imparted to him all that he knew on the 
subject. The inn had been aroused several months before, on 
a dark stormy night, by repeated long shouts, that seemed like 
the howlings of a wolf. They came from the water-side; and 
at length were distinguished to be hailing the house in the sea- 
faring manner, “ House-a-hoy!” The landlord turned out 
with his head waiter, tapster, hostler, and errand-boy—that 
is to say, with his old negro Cuff. On approaching the place 
whence the voice proceeded, they found this amphibious-look- 


430 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


ing personage at the water’s edge, quite alone, and seated on 
a great oaken sea-chest. How he came there, whether he 
had been set on shore from some boat, or had floated to land 
on his chest, nobody could tell, for he did not seem disposed 
to answer questions; and there was something in his looks 
and manners that put a stop to all questioning. Suffice it to 
say, he took possession of a corner room of the inn, to which 
his chest was removed with great difficulty. Here he had 
remained ever since, keeping about the inn and its vicinity. 
Sometimes, it is true, he disappeared for one, two, or three 
days at a time, going and returning without giving any notice 
or account of his movements. He always appeared to have 
plenty of money, though often of very strange outlandish 
coinage ; and he regularly paid his bill every evening before 
turning in. 

He had’ fitted up his room to his own fancy, having 
slung a hammock from the ceiling instead of a bed, and dee- 
orated the walls with rusty pistols and cutlasses of foreign 
workmanship. A greater part of his time was passed in this 
room, seated by the window, which commanded a wide 
view of the Sound, a short old-fashioned pipe in his mouth, 
a glass of rum-toddy at his elbow, and a pocket telescope in 
his hand, with which he reconnoitred every boat that moved - 
upon the water. Large square-rigged vessels seemed to 
excite but little attention; but the moment he descried any 
thing with a shoulder-of-mutton sail, or that a barge, or 
yawl, or jolly-boat hove in sight, up went the telescope, and 
he examined it with the most scrupulous attention. 

All this might have passed without much notice, for in 


those times the province was so much the resort of adven- 


WOLFERT WEBBER. 431 


turers of all characters and climes, that any oddity in dress or 
behavior attracted but small attention. In a little while, 
however, this strange sea-monster, thus strangely cast upon 
dry land, began to encroach upon the long-established cus- 
toms and customers of the place, and to interfere in a dicta- 
torial manner in the affairs of the nine-pin alley and the bar- 
room, until in the end he usurped an absolute command over 
the whole inn. It was all in vain to attempt to withstand his 
authority. He was not exactly quarrelsome, but boisterous 
and peremptory, like one accustomed to tyrannize on a 
quarter-deck ; and there was a dare-devil air about every 
thing he said and did, that inspired wariness in all bystanders. 
Even the half-pay officer, so long the hero of the club, was 
soon, silenced by him; and the quiet burghers stared with 
wonder at seeing their inflammable man of war so readily 
and quietly extinguished. 

And then the tales that he would tell were enough to make 
a peaceable man’s hair stand on end. There was not a sea- 
fight, nor marauding nor freebooting adventure that had hap- 
pened within the last twenty years, but he seemed perfectly 
versed in it. He delighted to talk of the exploits of the buc- 
caneers in the West Indies, and on the Spanish Main. How 
his eyes would glisten as he described the waylaying of treas- 
ure-ships, the desperate fights, yard-arm and yard-arm—broad- 
side and broadside—the boarding and capturing huge 
Spanish galleons! With what chuckling relish would he de- 
scribe the descent upon some rich Spanish colony ; the rifling 
of a church; the sacking of a convent! You would have 
thought you heard some gormandizer dilating upon the 


roasting of a savory goose at Michaelmas as he described the 


432 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


roasting of some Spanish Don to make him discover his treas- 
ure—a detail given with a minuteness that made every rich 
old burgher present turn uncomfortably in his chair. AII this 
would be told with infinite glee, as if he considered it an ex- 
cellent joke; and then he would give such a tyrannical leer 
in the face of his next neighbor, that the poor man would be 
fain to laugh out of sheer faint-heartedness. If any one, how- 
ever, pretended to contradict him in any of his stories he 
was on fire in an instant. His very cocked hat assumed a 
momentary fierceness, and seemed to resent the contradiction. 
“How the devil should you know as well as I1?—I tell you 


it was as I say ;” 


and he would at the same time let slip a 
broadside of thundering oaths and tremendous sea-phrases, 
such as. had never been heard before within these peaceful 
walls. 

Indeed, the worthy burghers began to surmise that he 
knew more of those stories than mere hearsay. | Day after 
day their conjectures concerning him grew more and more 
wild and fearful. The strangeness of his arrival, the strange- 
ness of his manners, the mystery that surrounded him, all 
made him something incomprehensible in their eyes. He 
was a kind of monster of the deep to them—he was a merman 
—he was a behemoth—he was a leviathan—in short, they 
knew not what he was. 

The domineering spirit of this boisterous sea-urchin at 
length grew quite intolerable. He was no respecter of per- 
sons ; he contradicted the richest burghers without hesitation ; 
he took possession of the sacred elbow-chair, which, time out 
of mind, had been the seat of sovereignty of the illustrious 
Ramm Rapelye. Nay, he even went so far in one of his 


WOLFERT WEBBER. 433 


rough jocular moods, as to slap that mighty burgher on the 
back, drink his toddy, and wink in his face, a thing scarcely 
to be believed. From this time Ramm Rapelye appeared 
no more at the inn; his example was followed by several of 
the most eminent customers, who were too rich to tolerate 
being bullied out of their opinions, or being obliged to laugh 
at another man’s jokes. The landlord was almost in despair ; 
but he knew not how to get rid of this sea-monster and 
his sea-chest, who seemed both to have grown like fixtures, 
or excrescences on his establishment. 

Such was the account whispered cautiously in Wolfert’s 
ear, by the narrator, Peechy Prauw, as he held him by the 
button in a corner of the hall, casting a wary glance now and 
then towards the door of the bar-room, lest he should be over- 
heard by the terrible hero of his tale. 

Wolfert took his seat in a remote part of the room in 
silence ; impressed with profound awe of this unknown, so 
versed in freebooting history. It was to him a wonderful 
instance of the revolutions of mighty empires, to find the 
venerable Ramm Rapelye thus ousted from the throne, and 
a rugged tarpawling dictating from his elbow chair, hectoring 
the patriarchs, and filling this tranquil little realm with brawl 
and bravado. 

The stranger was on this evening in a more than usually 
communicative mood, and was narrating a number of astound- 
ing stories of plunderings and burnings on the high seas. He 
dwelt upon them with peculiar relish, heightening the fright- 
ful particulars in proportion to their effect on his peaceful 
auditors. He gave a swaggering detail of the capture of a 


Spanish merchantman. She was lying becalmed during a 
19 


434 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


long summer’s day, just off from the island which was one 
of the lurking-places of the pirates. They had reconnoitred 
her with their spy-glasses from the shore, and ascertained her 
character and force. At night a picked crew of daring fel- 
lows set off for her ina whale boat. They approached with 
muffled oars, as she lay rocking idly with the undulations of 
the sea, and her sails flapping against the masts. They were 
close under the stern before the guard on deck was aware of 
their approach. The alarm was given; the pirates threw 
hand-grenades on deck, and sprang up the main chains sword 
in hand. 

The crew flew to arms, but in great confusion; some 
were shot down, others took refuge in the tops; others were 
driven overboard and drowned, while others fought hand to 
hand from the main-deck to the quarter-deck, disputing gal- 
lantly every inch of ground. There were three Spanish gen- 
tlemen on board with their ladies, who made the most despe- 
rate resistance. They defended the companion-way, cut down 
several of their assailants, and fought like very devils, for 
they were maddened by the shrieks of the ladies from the 
cabin. One of the Dons was old, and soon dispatched. The 
other two kept their ground vigorously, even though the 
captain of the pirates was among their assailants. Just then 
there was a shout of victory from the main-deck. “ The 
ship is ours!” cried the pirates. 

One of the Dons immediately dropped his sword and 
surrendered ; the other, who was a hot-headed youngster, and 
just married, gave the captain a slash in the face that laid all 
open. The captain just made out to articulate the words 


‘“‘no quarter.” 


ies | . A ay 


WOLFERT WEBBER. 435 


“And what did they do with their prisoners?” said 
Peechy Prauw, eagerly. 

“Threw them all overboard,’ was the answer. <A dead 
pause followed the reply. Peechy Prauw sunk quietly 
back, like a man who had wnwarily stolen upon the lair of a 
sleeping lion. The honest burghers cast fearful glances at 
the deep scar slashed across the visage of the stranger, and 
moved their chairs a little farther off. The seaman, however, 
smoked on without moving a muscle, as though he either 
did not perceive or did not regard the unfavorable effect he 
had produced upon his hearers. 

The half-pay officer was the first to break the silence ; for 
he was continually tempted to make ineffectual head against 
this tyrant of the seas, and to regain his lost consequence in 
the eyes of his ancient companions. He now tried to match 
the gunpowder tales of the stranger by others equally tremen- 
dous. Kidd, as usual, was his hero, concerning whom he 
seemed to have picked up many of the floating traditions of 
the province. The seaman had always evinced a_ settled 
pique against the one-eyed warrior. On this occasion he 
listened with peculiar impatience. He sat with one arm 
akimbo, the other elbow on the table, the hand holding on to 
the small pipe he was pettishly puffing; his legs crossed ; 
drumming with one foot on the ground, and casting every 
now and then the side-glance of a basilisk at the prosing 
captain. At length the latter spoke of Kidd’s having ascend- 
ed the Hudson with some of his crew, to land his plunder 
in secrecy. 

“ Kidd up the Hudson!” burst forth the seaman, with a 


tremendous oath—* Kidd never was up the Hudson !” 


436 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


“T tell you he was,” said the other. “ Aye, and they say 
he buried a quantity of treasure on the little flat that runs 
out into the river, called the Devil’s Dans Kammer.” 

“The Devil’s Dans Kammer in your teeth!” cried the 
seaman. “TI tell you Kidd never was up the Hudson. What 
a plague do you know of Kidd and his haunts ?” 

“ What do I know ?”’ echoed the half-pay officer. “ Why, 
I was in London at the time of his trial; aye, and I had the 
pleasure of seeing him hanged at Execution Dock.” 

“ Then, sir, let me tell you that you saw as pretty a fellow 
hanged as ever trod shoe-leather. Aye!” putting his face 
nearer to that of the officer, ‘‘ and there was many a land-lub- 
ber looked on that might much better have swung in his 
stead.” 7 | 

The half-pay officer was silenced ; but the indignation thus 
pent up in his bosom glowed with intense vehemence in his 
single eye, which kindled like a coal. 

Peechy Prauw, who never could remain silent, observed 
that the gentleman certainly was in the right. Kidd never 
did bury money up the Hudson, nor indeed in any of those 
parts, though many affirmed such to be the fact. It was Brad- 
ish and others of the buccaneers who had buried money ; 
some said in Turtle Bay, others on Long Island, others in the 
neighborhood of Hellgate. Indeed, added he, I recollect an 
adventure of Sam, the negro fisherman, many years ago, 
which some think had something to do with the buccaneers. 
As we are all friends here, and as it will go no further, I’ll 
tell it to you. | 

“Upon a dark night many years ago, as Black Sam was 


returning from fishing in Hell-gate——” 


WOLFERT WEBBER. 437 


Here the story was nipped in the bud by a sudden move- 
ment from the unknown, who laying his iron fist on the table, 
knuckles downward, with a quiet force that indented the very 
boards, and looking grimly over his shoulder, with the grin of 
an angry bear—“ Heark’ee, neighbor,” said he, with signifi- 
cant nodding of the head, “ you’d better let the buccaneers 
and their money alone—they’re not for old men and old 
women to meddle with. They fought hard for their money ; 
they gave body and soul for it; and wherever it lies buried, 
depend upon it he must have a tug with the devil who gets 
it)” 

This sudden explosion was succeeded by a blank silence 
throughout the room. Peechy Prauw shrunk within him- 
self; and even the one-eyed officer turned pale. Wolfert, who 
from a dark corner of the room had listened with intense 
eagerness to all this talk about buried treasure, looked with 
mingled awe and reverence at this bold buccaneer ; for such he 
really suspected him to be. There was a chinking of gold 
and a sparkling of jewels in all his stories about the Spanish 
Main that gave a value to every period; and Wolfert would 
have given any thing for the rummaging of the ponderous 
sea-chest, which his imagination crammed full of golden chal- 
ices, crucifixes, and jolly round bags of doubloons. 

The dead stillness that had fallen upon the company was 
at length interrupted by the stranger, who pulled out a prodi- 
gious watch of curious and ancient workmanship, and which 
in Wolfert’s eyes had a decidedly Spanish look. On touching 
aspring it struck ten o’clock ; upon which the sailor called for 
his reckoning, and having paid it out of a handful of outlandish 
coin, he drank off the remainder of his beverage, and without 


438 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


taking leave of any one, rolled out of the room, muttering to 
himself, as he stamped up stairs to his chamber. 

It was some time before the company could recover from 
the silence into which they had been thrown. The very foot- 
steps of the stranger, which were heard now and then as he 
traversed his chamber, inspired awe. 

Still the conversation in which they had been engaged was 
too interesting not to be resumed. A heavy thundergust had 
gathered up unnoticed while they were lost in talk, and the 
torrents of rain that fell forbade all thoughts of setting off 
for home until the storm should subside. They drew nearer 
together, therefore, and entreated the worthy Peechy Prauw 
to continue the tale which had been so discourteously inter- 
rupted. He readily complied, whispering, however, in a tone 
scarcely above his breath, and drowned occasionally by the 


rolling of the thunder; and he would pause every now and 


then, and listen with evident awe, as he heard the heavy foot- 


steps of the stranger pacing over head. 


The following is the purport of his story. 


ae | 


ADVENTURE OF THE BLACK FISHERMAN. 


VERY body knows Black Sam, the old negro fisherman, 
or, as he is commonly called, Mud Sam, who has fished 
about the Sound for the last half century. It is now many 
years since Sam, who was then as active a young negro as any 
in the province, and worked on the farm of Killian Suydam on 
Long Island, having finished his day’s work at an early hour, 
was fishing, one still summer evening, just about the neigh- 
borhood of Hell-gate. 

Tle was in a light skiff, and being well acquainted with the 
currents and eddies, had shifted his station according to the 
shifting of the tide, from the Hen and Chickens to the Hog’s 
Back, from the Hog’s Back to the Pot, and from the Pot to 
the Frying-Pan; but in the eagerness of his sport he did not 
see that the tide was rapidly ebbing, until the roaring of the 
whirlpools and eddies warned him of his danger; and he had 
some difficulty in shooting his skiff from among the rocks 
and breakers, and getting to the point of Blackwell’s Island. 
Here he cast anchor for some time, waiting the turn of the 
tide to enable him to return homewards. As the night set 


in, it grew blustering and gusty. Dark clouds came bundling 


440 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


up in the west ; and now and then a growl of thunder or a 
flash of lightning told that a summer storm was at hand. 
Sam pulled over, therefore, under the lee of Manhattan Island, 
_ and coasting along, came to a snug nook, just under a steep 
beetling rock, where he fastened his skiff to the root of a tree 
that shot out from a cleft, and spread its broad branches like a 
canopy over the water. The gust came scouring along; the 
wind threw up the river in white surges; the rain rattled 
among the leaves; the thunder bellowed worse than that 
which is now bellowing ; the lightning seemed to lick up the 
surges of the stream; but Sam, snugly sheltered under rock 
and tree, lay crouching in his skiff, rocking upon the billows 
until he fell asleep. When he woke all was quiet. The gust 
had passed away, and only now and then a faint gleam of 
lightning in the east showed which way it had gone. The 
night was dark and moonless; and from the state of the tide 
Sam concluded it was near midnight. He was on the point 
of making loose his skiff to return homewards, when he saw 
a light gleaming along the water from a distance, which seem- 
ed rapidly approaching. As it drew near he perceived it came 
from a lantern in the bow of a boat gliding along under shadow 
of the land. It pulled up in a small cove, close to where he 
was. A man jumped on shore, and searching about with the 
lantern, exclaimed, “ This is the place—here’s the iron ring.” 
The boat was then made fast, and the man returning on board, 
assisted his comrades in conveying something heavy on shore. 
As the light gleamed among them, Sam saw that they were 
five stout desperate-looking fellows, in red woollen caps, with 
a leader in a three-cornered hat, and that some of them 
were armed with dirks, or long knives, and pistols. They 


THE BLACK FISHERMAN. 441 


talked low to one another, and occasionally in some outlandish 
tongue which he could not understand. 

On landing they made their way among the bushes, taking 
turns to relieve each other in lugging their burden up the 
rocky bank. Sam/’s curiosity was now fully aroused ; so leav- 
ing his skiff he clambered silently up a ridge that overlooked 
their path. They had stopped to rest for a moment, and the 
leader was looking about among the bushes with his lantern. 
‘“‘ Have you brought the spades ?” said one. ‘‘ They are here,” 
replied another, who had them on his shoulder. “ We must 
dig deep, where there will be no risk of discovery,” said a 
third. 

A cold chill ran through Sam’s veins. He fancied he saw 
before him a gang of murderers, about to bury their victim. 
His knees smote together. In his agitation he shook the 
branch of a tree with which he was supporting himself as he 
looked over the edge of the cliff. 

“ What’s that?” cried one of the gang. ‘Some one stirs 
among the bushes !” 

The lantern was held up in the direction of the noise. 
One of the red-caps cocked a pistol, and pointed it towards 
the very place where Sam was standing. He stood motion- 
less—breathless ; expecting the next moment to be his last. 
Fortunately his dingy complexion was in his favor, and made 
no glare among the leaves. 

“°Tis no one,” said the man with the lantern. “ What a 
plague ! you would not fire off your pistol and alarm the coun- 
try !”’ 

The pistol was uncocked; the burden was resumed, and 


the party slowly toiled along the bank. Sam watched them 
19% 


442 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


as they went; the light sending back fitful gleams through 
the dripping bushes, and it was not till they were fairly out 
of sight that he ventured to draw breath freely. He now 
thought of getting back to his boat, and making his escape 
out of the reach of such dangerous neighbors; but curiosity 
was all-powerful. He hesitated and lingered and listened. 
By and by he heard the strokes of spades. “They are dig- 
ging the grave!” said he to himself; and the cold sweat start- 
ed upon his forehead. Every stroke of a spade, as it sound- 
ed through the silent groves, went to his heart; it was evi- 
dent there was as little noise made as possible; every thing 
had an air of terrible mystery and secrecy. Sam had a great 
relish for the horrible,—a tale of murder was a treat for him ; 
and he was a constant attendant at executions. He could not 
resist an impulse, in spite of every danger, to steal nearer to 
the scene of mystery, and overlook the midnight fellows at 
their work. He crawled along cautiously, therefore, inch by 
inch; stepping with the utmost care among the dry leaves, 
lest their rustling should betray him. He came at length to 
where a steep rock intervened between him and the gang ; for 
he saw the light of their lantern shining up against the branch- 
es of the trees on the other side. Sam slowly and silently 
clambered up the surface of the rock, and raising his head above 
its naked edge, beheld the villains immediately below him, and 
so near, that though he dreaded discovery, he dared not with- 
draw lest the least movement should be heard. In this way 
he remained, with his round black face peering above the edge 
of the rock, like the sun just emerging above the edge of the 
horizon, or the round-cheeked moon on the dial of a clock. 


The red-caps had nearly finished their work; the grave 


THE BLACK FISHERMAN. 443 


was filled up, and they were carefully replacing the turf. 
This done, they scattered dry leaves over the place. “ And 
now,” said the leader, “I defy the devil himself to find it 
out.” 

“The murderers!” exclaimed Sam, involuntarily. 

The whole gang started, and looking up, beheld the round 
black head of Sam just above them. His white eyes strained 
half out of their orbits; his white teeth chattering, and his 
whole visage shining with cold perspiration. 

“ We're discovered !” cried one. 

“ Down with him!” cried another. 

Sam heard the cocking of a pistol, but did not pause for 
the report. He scrambled over rock and stone, through brush 
and brier; rolled down banks like a hedge-hog ; scrambled 
up others like a catamount. In every direction he heard some 
one or other of the gang hemming him in. At length he 
reached the rocky ridge along the river; one of the red-caps 
was hard behind him. A steep rock like a wall rose directly 
in his way ; it seemed to cut off all retreat, when fortunately 
he espied the strong cord-like branch of a grape-vine reaching 
half way down it. He sprang at it with the force of a desper- 
ate man, seized it with both hands, and being young and 
agile, succeeded in swinging himself to the summit of the 
cliff. Here he stood in full relief against the sky, when the 
red-cap cocked his pistol and fired. The ball whistled by 
Sam’s head. With the lucky thought of a man in an emer- 
gency, he uttered a yell, fell to the ground, and detached at 
the same time a fragment of the rock, which tumbled with a 
loud splash into the river: . 


“T’ve done his business,” said the red-cap to one or two 


444 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


of his comrades as they arrived panting. “ He'll tell no tales, 
except to the fishes in the river.” 

His pursuers now turned to meet their companions. Sam 
sliding silently down the surface of the rock, let himself quietly 
into his skiff, cast loose the fastening, and abandoned himself 
to the rapid current, which in that place runs like a mill- 
stream, and soon swept him off from the neighborhood. It 
was not, however, until he had drifted a great distance that 
he ventured to ply his oars when he made his skiff dart like 
an arrow through the strait of Hell-gate, never heeding the 
danger of Pot, Frying Pan, nor Hog’s Back itself: nor 
did he feel himself thoroughly secure until safely nestled in 
bed in the cockloft of the ancient farm-house of the Suydams. 

Here the worthy Peechy Prauw paused to take breath, 
and to take a sip of the gossip tankard that stood at his el- 
bow. His auditors remained with open mouths and out- 
stretched necks, gaping like a nest of swallows for an addi- 
tional mouthful. 

“ And is that all?” exclaimed the half-pay officer. 

“That’s all that belongs to the story,” said Peechy Prauw. 

“ And did Sam never find out what was buried by the red- 
caps ?” said Wolfert, eagerly, whose mind was haunted by 
nothing but ingots and doubloons. 

“ Not that I know of” said Peechy ; “he had no time to 
spare from his work, and, to tell the truth, he did not like to 
run the risk of another race among the rocks. Besides, how 
should he recollect the spot where the grave had been digged ? 
every thing would look so different by daylight. And then, 
where was the use of looking for a dead body, when there 
was no chance of hanging the murderers ?” 


THE BLACK FISHERMAN. 445 


“Aye, but are you sure it was a dead body they bur- 
ied?” said Wolfert. 

“To be sure,” cried Peechy Prauw, exultingly. “ Does it 
not haunt in the neighborhood to this very day ?” 

“ Haunts!” exclaimed several of the party, opening their 
eyes still wider, and edging their chairs still closer. 

“ Aye, haunts,” repeated Peechy ; “ have none of you heard 
of father Red-cap, who haunts the old burnt farm-house in the 
woods, on the border of the Sound, near Hell-gate ?” 

“Oh, to be sure, ’ve heard tell of something of the kind, 
but then I took it for some old wives’ fable.” 

“ Old wives’ fable or not,” said Peechy Prauw, “ that farm- 
house stands hard by the very spot. It’s been unoccupied time 
out of mind, and stands in a lonely part of the coast; but 
those who fish in the neighborhood have often heard strange 
noises there; and lights have been seen about the wood at 
night; and an old fellow in a red cap has been seen at the 
windows more than once, which people take to be the ghost 
of the body buried there. Once upon a time three soldiers 
took shelter in the building for the night, and rummaged it 
from top to bottom, when they found old father Red-cap a- 
stride of a cider-barrel in the cellar, with a jug in one hand and 
a goblet in the other. He offered them a drink out of his goblet, 
but just as one of the soldiers was putting it to his mouth— 
whew !—a flash of fire blazed through the cellar, blinded 
every mother’s son of them for several minutes, and when 
they recovered their eye-sight, jug, goblet, and Red-cap 
had vanished, and nothing but the empty cider-barrel re- 
mained,” 

Here the half-pay officer, who was growing very muzzy 

19* 


446 TALES OF A TRAVELLER, 


and sleepy, and nodding over his liquor, with half-extinguished 
eye, suddenly gleamed up like an expiring rushlight. 

“'That’s all fudge!” said he, as Peechy finished his last 
story. 

“ Well, I don’t vouch for the truth of it myself,” said 
Peechy Prauw, “though all the world knows that there’s 
something strange about that house and grounds; but as to 
the story of Mud Sam, I believe it just as well as if it had 
happened to myself.” 


The deep interest taken in this conversation by the com- 
pany had made them unconscious of the uproar abroad among 
the elements, when suddenly they were electrified by a tre- 
mendous clap of thunder. A lumbering crash followed in- 
stantaneously, shaking the building to its very foundation. 
All started from their seats, imagining it the shock of an 
earthquake, or that old father Red-cap was coming among 
them in all his terrors, They listened for a moment, but on- 
ly heard the rain pelting against the windows, and the wind 
howling among the trees. The explosion was soon explained 
by the apparition of an old negro’s bald head thrust in at the 
door, his white goggle eyes contrasting with his jetty poll, 
which was wet with rain, and shone like a bottle. In a jargon 
but half intelligible, he announced that the kitchen chimney 
had been struck with lightning. 

A sullen pause of the storm, which now rose and. sunk in 
gusts, produced a momentary stillness. In this interval the 


report of a musket was heard, and a long shout, almost like a 


WOLFERT WEBBER. 447 


yell, resounded from the shores. Every one crowded to the 
window ; another musket-shot was heard, and another long 
shout, mingled wildly with a rising blast of wind. It seemed 
as if the ery came up from the bosom of the waters; for 
though incessant flashes of lightning spread a light about the 
shore, no one was to be seen. 

Suddenly the window of the room overhead was opened, 
and a loud halloo uttered by the mysterious stranger. Sey- 
eral hailings passed from one party to the other, but in a lan- 
guage which none of the company in the bar-room could un- 
derstand ; and presently they heard the window closed, and a 
great noise overhead, as if all the furniture were pulled and 
hauled about the room. The negro servant was summoned, 
and shortly afterwards was seen assisting the veteran to lug 
the ponderous sea-chest down stairs. 

The landlord was in amazement. “ What, you are not 
going on the water in such a storm ?” 

“Storm!” said the other, scornfully, “do you call such a 
sputter of weather a storm ?” 

“You'll get drenched to the skin—Youw'll catch your death!” 
said Peechy Prauw, affectionately. 

“ Thunder and lightning !” exclaimed the veteran, “ don’t 
preach about weather to a man that has cruised in whirl- 
winds and tornadoes.” 

The obsequious Peechy was again struck dumb. The voice 
from the water was heard once more in a tone of impatience ; 
the bystanders stared with redoubled awe at this man of 
storms, who seemed to have come up out of the deep, and to 
be summoned back to it again. As, with the assistance of 


the negro, he slowly bore his ponderous sea-chest towards 


448 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


the shore, they eyed it with a superstitious feeling; half 
doubting whether he were not really about to embark upon it 
and launch forth upon the wild waves. They followed him 
at a distance with a lantern. 

“ Dowse the light!” roared the hoarse voice from the wa- 
ter. “No one wants light here!” 

“Thunder and lightning!” exclaimed the veteran, turning 
short upon them ; “ back to the house with you!” 

W olfert and his companions shrunk back in dismay. Still 
their curiosity would not allow them entirely to withdraw. 
A long sheet of lightning now flickered across the waves, and 
discovered a boat, filled with men, just under a rocky point, 
rising and sinking with the heaving surges, and swashing the 
waters at every heave. It was with difficulty held to the 
rocks by a boat-hook, for the current rushed furiously round 
the point. The veteran hoisted one end of the lumbering sea- 
chest on the gunwale of the boat, and seized the handle at the 
other end to lift it in, whenthe motion propelled the boat 
from the shore; the chest slipped off from the gunwale, and, 
sinking into the waves, pulled the veteran headlong after it. 
A loud shriek was uttered by all on shore, and a volley of 
execrations by those on board; but boat and man were hur- 
ried away by the rushing swiftness of the tide. A pitchy 
darkness succeeded ; Wolfert Webber indeed fancied that he 
distinguished a cry for help, and that he beheld the drowning 
man beckoning for assistance; but when the lightning again 
gleamed along the water, all was void; neither man nor boat 
was to be seen; nothing but the dashing and weltering of the 
waves as they hurried past. 


The company returned to the tavern to await the subsid- 


WOLFERT WEBBER. 449 


ing of the storm. They resumed their seats, and gazed on 
each other with dismay. The whole transaction had not occu- 
pied five minutes, and not a dozen words had been spoken. 
When they looked at the oaken chair, they could scarcely 
realize the fact that the strange being who had so lately ten- 
anted it, full of life and Herculean vigor, should already be a 
corpse. There was the very glass he had just drunk from ; 
there lay the ashes from the pipe which he had smoked, as it 
were, with his last breath. As the worthy burghers pondered 
on these things, they felt a terrible conviction of the uncer- 
tainty of existence, and each felt as if the ground on which he 
stood was rendered less stable by his awful example. 

As, however, the most of the company were possessed of 
that valuable philosophy which enables a man to bear up with 
fortitude against the misfortunes of his neighbors, they soon 
managed to console themselves for the tragic end of the vet- 
eran. The landlord was particularly happy that the poor 
dear man had paid his reckoning before he went ; and made a 
kind of farewell speech on the occasion. 

“ He came,” said he, “in a storm, and he went in a storm ; 
he came in the night, and. he went in the night; he came no- 
body knows whence, and he has gone nobody knows where. 
For aught I know he has gone to sea once more on his chest, 
and may land to bother some people on the other side of the 
world! Though it’s a thousand pities,” added he, “if he has 
gone to Davy Jones’ locker, that he had not left his own lock- 
er behind him.” 

“His locker! St. Nicholas preserve us!” cried Peechy 
Prauw. “Id not have had that sea-chest in the house for any 


money ; I'll warrant he’d come racketing after it at nights, 


450 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


and making a haunted house of the inn. And, as to his going 
to sea in his chest, I recollect what happened to Skipper On- 
derdonk’s ship on his voyage from Amsterdam. 

“The boatswain died during a storm, so they wrapped him 
up in a sheet, and put him in his own sea-chest, and threw him 
overboard; but they neglected in their hurry-skurry to say pray- 
ers over him—and the storm raged and roared louder than ever, 
and they saw the dead man seated in his chest, with his shroud 
for a sail, coming hard after the ship ; and the sea breaking be- 
fore him in great sprays like fire ; and there they kept scudding 
day after day, and night after night, expecting every moment 
to go to wreck ; and every night they saw the dead boatswain 
in his sea-chest trying to get up with them, and they heard his 
whistle above the blasts of wind, and he seemed to send 
great seas mountain high after them, that would have swamp- 
ed the ship if they had not put up the dead-lights. And so it 
went on till they lost sight of him in the fogs off Newfound- 
Jand, and supposed he had veered ship and stood for Dead 
Man’s Isle. So much for burying a man at sea without say- 
ing prayers over him.” 

The thundergust which had hitherto detained the company 
was now at an end. The cuckoo clock in the hall told mid- 
night ; every one pressed to depart, for seldom was such a 
late hour of the night trespassed on by these quiet burghers, 
As they sallied forth, they found the heavens once more serene. 
The storm which had lately obscured them had rolled away, 
and lay piled up in fleecy masses on the horizon, lighted up 
by the bright crescent of the moon, which looked like a little 
silver lamp hung up in a palace of clouds, 

The dismal occurrence of the night, and the dismal narra- 


WOLFERT WEBBER. 451 


tions they had made, had left a superstitious feeling in every 
mind. ‘They cast a fearful glance at the spot where the buc- 
caneer had disappeared, almost expecting to see him sailing 
on his chest in the cool moonshine. The trembling rays glit- 
tered along the waters, but all was placid; and the current 
dimpled over the spot where he had gone down. The party 
huddled together in a little crowd as they repaired home- 
wards ; particularly when they passed a lonely field where a 
man had been murdered; and even the sexton, who had 
to complete his journey alone, though accustomed, one would 
think, to ghosts and goblins, went a long way round, rather 
than pass by his own church-yard. 

Wolfert Webber had now carried home a fresh stock of 
stories and notions to ruminate upon. These accounts of pots 
of money and Spanish treasures, buried here and there and 
every where, about the rocks and bays of these wild shores, 
made him almost dizzy. “ Blessed St. Nicholas!” ejaculated 
he half aloud, “ is it not possible to come upon one of these 
golden hoards, and to make one’s self rich in a twinkling ? 
How hard that I must go on, delving and delving, day in and 
day out, merely to make a morsel of bread, when one lucky 
stroke of a spade might enable me to ride in my carriage for 
the rest of my life!” 

As he turned over in his thoughts all that had been told 
of the singular adventure of the negro fisherman, his imagina- 
tion gave a totally different complexion to the tale. He saw 
in the gang of red-caps nothing but a crew of pirates burying 
their spoils, and his cupidity was once more awakened by the 
possibility of at. lengh getting on the traces of some of this 


lurking wealth. Indeed, his infected fancy tinged every thing 


452 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


with gold. He felt like the greedy inhabitant of Bagdad, when 
his eyes had been greased with the magic ointment of the der- 
vise, that gave him to see all the treasures of the earth. Cas- 
kets of buried jewels, chests of ingots, and barrels of outland- 
ish coins, seemed to court him from their concealments, and 
supplicate hin to relieve them from their untimely graves. 

On making private inquiries about the grounds said to be 
haunted by Father Red-cap, he was more and more confirmed 
in his surmise. He learned that the place had several times 
been visited by experienced money-diggers, who had heard 
black Sam’s story, though none of them had met with suc- 
eess. On the contrary, they had always been dogged with ill- 
luck of some kind or other, in consequence, as Wolfert con- 
cluded, of not going to work at the proper time, and with the 
proper ceremonials. The last attempt had been made by Co- 
bus Quackenbos, who dug for a whole night, and met with in- 
credible difficulty, for as fast as he threw one shovel full of 
earth out of the hole, two were thrown in by invisible hands: 
He succeeded so far, however, as to uncover an iron chest, 
when there was a terrible roaring, ramping, and raging of un- 
couth figures about the hole, and at length a shower of blows, 
dealt by invisible cudgels, fairly belabored him off of the for- 
bidden ground. This Cobus Quackenbos had declared on his 
death-bed, so that there could not be any doubt of it. He 
was a man that had devoted many years of his life to 
money-digging, and it was thought would have ultimately 
succeeded, had he not died recently of a brain-fever in the 
alms-house. 

Wolfert Webber was now in a worry of trepidation and 


impatience ; fearful lest some rival adventurer should get a 


WOLFERT WEBBER. 453 


scent of the buried gold. He determined privately to seek 
out the black fisherman, and get him to serve as guide to the 
place where he had witnessed the mysterious scene of inter- 
ment. Sam was easily found; for he was one of those old hab- 
itual beings that live about a neighborhood until they wear 
themselves a place in the public mind, and become, in a man- 
ner, public characters. There was not an unlucky urchin about 
town that did not know Sam the fisherman, and think that he 
had a right to play his tricks upon the old negro. Sam had 
led an amphibious life for more than half a century, about the 
shores of the bay, and the fishing-grounds of the Sound. He 
passed the greater part of his time on and in the water, par- 
ticularly about Hell-gate; and might have been taken, in bad 
weather, for one of the hobgoblins that used to haunt that 
strait. There would he be seen, at all times, and in all 
weathers ; sometimes in his skiff, anchored among the eddies, 
or prowling, like a shark about some wreck, where the fish 
are supposed to be most abundant. Sometimes seated on a 
rock from hour to hour, looking in the mist and drizzle, like a 
solitary heron watching for its prey. He was well acquainted 
with every hole and corner of the Sound; from the Walla- 
bout to Hell-gate, and from Hell-gate even unto the Devil’s 
Stepping-Stones ; and it was even affirmed that he knew all 
the fish in the river by their Christian names. 

Wolfert found him at his cabin, which was not much 
larger than a tolerable dog-house. It was rudely constructed 
of fragments of wrecks and drift-wood, and built on the rocky 
shore, at the foot of the old fort, just about what at present 
forms the point of the Battery. A “most ancient and fish- 
like smell” pervaded the place. Oars, paddles, and fishing- 


454 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


rods were leaning against the wall of the fort; a net was 
spread on the sands to dry; a skiff was drawn up on the 
beach, and at the door 6f his cabin was Mud Sam himself, 
indulging in the true negro luxury of sleeping in the sun- 
shine. 

Many years had passed away since the time of Sam’s 
youthful adventure, and the snows of many a winter had griz- 
zled the knotty wool upon his head. He perfectly recollect- 
ed the circumstances, however, for he had often been called 
upon to relate them, though in his version of the story he dif- 
fered in many points from Peechy Prauw; as is not unfre- 
quently the case with authentic historians. As to the subse- 
quent researches of money-diggers, Sam knew nothing about 
them; they were matters quite out of his line; neither did 
the cautious Wolfert care to disturb his thoughts on that 
point. His only wish was to secure the old fisherman as a 
pilot to the spot, and this was readily effected. The long time 
that had intervened since his nocturnal adventure had effaced 
all Sam’s awe of the place, and the promise of a trifling re- 
ward roused him at once from his sleep and his sunshine. 

The tide was adverse to making the expedition by water, 
and Wolfert was too impatient to get to the land of promise, 
to wait for its turning; they set off, therefore, by land. A 
walk of four or five miles brought them to the edge of a wood, 
which at that time covered the greater part of the eastern side 
of the island. It was just beyond the pleasant region of 
Bloomen-dael. Here they struck into a long lane, straggling 
among trees and bushes, very much overgrown with weeds 
and mullen-stalks, as if but seldom used, and so completely 


overshadowed as to enjoy but a kind of twilight. Wild vines 


WOLFERT WEBBER. - W455 


entangled the trees and flaunted in their faces; brambles and 
briers caught their clothes as they passed; the garter-snake 
glided across their path; the spotted toad hopped and wad. 
dled before them, and the restless cat-bird mewed at them 
from every thicket. Had Wolfert Webber been deeply read 
in romantic legend, he might have fancied himself entering up. 
on forbidden, enchanted ground; or that these were some of 
the guardians set to keep watch upon buried treasure. As it 
was, the loneliness of the place, and the wild stories connected 
with it, had their effect upon his mind. 

On reaching the lower end of the lane, they found them- 
selves near the shore of the Sound in a kind of amphitheatre, 
surrounded by forest trees. The area had once been a grass- 
plot, but was now shagged with briers and rank weeds. 
At one end, and just on the river bank, was a ruined building, 
little better than a heap of rubbish, with a stack of chimneys 
rising like a solitary tower out of the centre. The current of, 
the Sound rushed along just below it ; with wildly grown trees 
drooping their branches into its waves. 

Wolfert had not a doubt that this was the haunted house 
of Father Red-cap, and called to mind the story of Peechy 
Prauw. ‘The evening was approaching, and the light falling 
dubiously among the woody places, gave a melancholy tone 
to the scene, well calculated to foster any lurking feeling of awe 
or superstition. The night-hawk, wheeling about in the high- 
est regions of the air, emitted his peevish, boding cry. The 
woodpecker gave a lonely tap now and then on some hollow 
tree, and the fire-bird* streamed by them with his deep-red 
plumage. 


* Orchard Oriole. 


456 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


They now came to an inclosure that had once been a gar- 
den. It extended along the foot of a rocky ridge, but was lit- 
tle better than a wilderness of weeds, with here and there a 
matted rose bush, or a peach or plum tree grown wild and 
ragged, and covered with moss. At the lower end of the gar- 
den they passed a kind of vault in the side of a bank, facing 
the water. It had the look of a root-house. The door, 
though decayed, was still strong, and appeared to have been 
recently patched up. Wolfert pushed it open. It gave a 
harsh grating upon its hinges, and striking against something 
like a box, a rattling sound ensued, and a skull rolled on the 
floor. Wolfert drew back shuddering, but was reassured on 
being informed by the negro that this was a family vault, be- 
longing to one of the old Dutch families that owned this es- 
tate ; an assertion corroborated by the sight of coffins of vari- 
ous sizes piled within. Sam had been familiar with all these 

~scenes when a boy, and now knew that he could not be far 
from the place of which they were in quest. 

They now made their way to the water’s edge, scrambling 
along ledges of rocks that overhung the waves, and obliged 
often to hold by shrubs and grape-vines to avoid slipping into 
the deep and hurried stream. Atlength they came toa small 
cove, or rather indent of the shore. It was protected by steep 
rocks, and overshadowed by a thick copse of oaks and chestnuts, 
so as to be sheltered and almost concealed. The beach shelved 
gradually within the cove, but the current swept deep, and black, 
and rapid, along its jutting points. The negro paused ; raised his 
remnant of a hat, and scratched his grizzled poll for a moment, 
as he regarded this nook ; then suddenly clapping his hands, he 
stepped exultingly forward, and pointed to a large iron ring, sta- 


WOLFERT WEBBER. 457 


pled firmly in the rock, just where a broad shelf of stone fur- 
nished a commodious landing-place. It was the very spot 
where the red-caps had landed. Years had changed the more 
perishable features of the scene; but rock and iron yield slow- 
ly to the influence of time. On looking more closely, Wol- 
fert remarked three crosses cut in the rock just above the ring, 
which had no doubt some mysterious signification. Old Sam 
now readily recognized the overhanging rock under which his» 
skiff had been sheitered during the thundergust. To follow 
up the course which the midnight gang had taken, however, 
was a harder task. is mind had been so much taken up on 
that eventful occasion by the persons of the drama, as to pay 
but little attention to the scenes ; and these places look so dif- 
ferent by night and day. After wandering about for some 
time, however, they came to an opening among the trees which 
Sam thought resembled the place. There was a ledge of rock 
of moderate height like a wall on one side, which he thought 
might be the very ridge whence he had overlooked the diggers. 
Wolfert examined it narrowly, and at length discovered three 
crosses similar to those on the above ring, cut deeply into 
the face of the rock, but nearly obliterated by moss that had 
grown over them. His heart leaped with joy, for he doubted 
not they were the private marks of the buccaneers. All now 
that remained was to ascertain the precise spot were the treas. 
ure lay buried ; for otherwise he might dig at random in the 
neighborhood of the crosses, without coming upon the spoils, 
and he had already had enough of such profitless labor. 
Here, however, the old negro was perfectly at a loss, and indeed 
perplexed him by a variety of opinions; for his recollections 


were all confused.. Sometimes he declared it must have been 


20 


458 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


at the foot of a mulberry-tree hard by; then beside a great 
white stone ; then under a small green knoll, a short distance 
from the ledge of rocks; until at length Wolfert became as 
bewildered as himself. 

The shadows of evening were now spreading themselves 
over the woods, and rock and tree began to mingle together. 
It was evidently too late to attempt any thing farther at pres- 
ent; and, indeed, Wolfert had come unprovided with imple- 
ments to prosecute his researches. Satisfied, therefore, with 
having ascertained the place, he took note of all its landmarks, 
that he might recognize it again, and set out on his return 
homewards, resolved to prosecute this golden enterprise with- 
out delay. 

The leading anxiety which had hitherto absorbed every feel- 
ing, being now in some measure appeased, fancy began to 
wander, and to conjure up a thousand shapes and chimeras as 
he returned through this haunted region. Pirates hanging in 
chains seemed to swing from every tree, and he almost expect- 
ed to see some Spanish Don, with his throat cut from ear to 
ear, rising slowly out of the ground, and shaking the ghost of 
a money-bag. 

“Their way back lay through the desolate garden, and Wol- 
fert’s nerves had arrived at so sensitive a state that the flitting 
of a bird, the rustling of a leaf, or the falling of a nut, was 
enough to startle him. As they entered the confines of the 
garden, they caught sight of a figure at a distance advancing 
slowly up one of the walks, and bending under the weight of 
a burden. They paused and regarded him attentively. He 
wore what appeared to be a woollen cap, and still more alarm- 


ing, of a most sanguinary red. 


WOLFERT WEBBER. 459 


The figure moved slowly on, ascended the bank, and stop- 
ped at the very door of the sepulchral vault. Just before 
entering it he looked around. What was the affright of Wol- 
fert, when he recognized the grisly visage of the drowned 
buccaneer! He uttered an ejaculation of horror. The figure 
slowly raised his iron fist, and shook it with a terrible men- 
ace. Wolfert did not pause to see any more, but hurried off 
as fast as his legs could carry him, nor was Sam slow in fol- 
lowing at his heels, having all his ancient terrors revived. 
Away, then, did they scramble through bush and brake, hor- 
ribly frightened at every bramble that tugged at their skirts, 
nor did they pause to breathe, until they had blundered their 
way through this perilous wood, and fairly reached the high 
road to the city. 

Several days elapsed before Wolfert could summon cour- 
age enough to prosecute the enterprise, so much had he been 
dismayed by the apparition, whether living or dead, of the 
grisly buccaneer. In the mean time, what a conflict of mind 
did he suffer! He neglected all his concerns, was moody and 
restless all day, lost his appetite, wandered in his thoughts 
and words, and committed a thousand blunders. His rest 
was broken; and when he fell asleep, the nightmare, in shape 
of a huge money-bag, sat squatted upon his breast. He bab- 
bled about incalculable sums; fancied himself engaged in 
money-digging ; threw the bedclothes right and left, in the 
idea that he was shovelling away the dirt; groped under the 
bed in quest of the treasure, and lugged forth, as he supposed, 
an inestimable pot of gold. 

Dame Webber and her daughter were in despair at what 
they conceived a returning touch of insanity. There are two 


460 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


family oracles, one or other of which Dutch housewives con- 
sult in all cases of great doubt and perplexity—the dominie 
and the doctor. In the present instance they repaired to the 
doctor. There was at that time a little dark mouldy man of 
medicine, famous among the old wives of the Manhattoes for 
his skill, not only in the healing art, but in all matters of 
strange and mysterious nature. His name was Dr. Knipper- 
hausen, but he was more commonly known by the appellation 
of the High German Doctor.* To him did the poor women 
repair for council and assistance touching the mental vagaries 
of Wolfert Webber. 

They found the doctor seated in his little study clad in his 
dark camlet robe of knowledge, with his black velvet cap ; 
after the manner of Boorhaave, Van Helmont, and other medi- 
cal sages; a pair of green spectacles set in black horn upon 
his clubbed nose, and poring over a German folio that reflect- 
ed back the darkness of his physiognomy. The doctor listened 
to their statement of the symptoms of Wolfert’s malady with 
profound attention ; but when they came to mention his ray- 
ing about buried money, the little man pricked up his ears. 
Alas, poor women! they little knew the aid they had called 
in. 

Dr. Knipperhausen had been half his life engaged in seek- 
ing the short cuts to fortune, in quest of which so many a long 
lifetime is wasted. He had passed some years of his youth 
among the Harz mountains of Germany, and had derived 
much valuable instruction from the miners, touching the mode 


of seeking treasure buried in the earth. He had prosecuted 


* The same, no doubt, of whom mention is made in the history of 
Dolph Heyliger. 


WOLFERT WEBBER. 461 


his studies also under a travelling sage who united the myste- 
ries of medicine with magic and legerdemain. His mind there- 
fore had become stored with all kinds of mystic lore; he had 
dabbled a little in astrology, alchemy, divination ; knew how 
to detect stolen money, and to tell where springs of water 
lay hidden; in a word, by the dark nature of his knowledge 
he had acquired the name of the High German Doctor, which 
is pretty nearly equivalent to that of necromancer. The doc- 
tor had often heard rumors of treasure being buried in various 
parts of the island, and had long been anxious to get on the 
traces of it. No sooner were Wolfert’s waking and sleeping 
vagaries confided to him, than he beheld in them the confirm- 
ed symptoms of a case of money-digging, and lost no time in 
probing it to the bottom. Wolfert had long been sorely op- 
pressed in mind by the golden secret, and as a family phy- 
sician is a kind of father confessor, he was glad of any op- 
portunity of unburdening himself. So far from curing, the 
doctor caught the malady from his patient. The circumstan- 
ces unfolded to him awakened all his cupidity ; he had not a 
doubt of money being buried somewhere in the neighborhood 
of the mysterious crosses, and offered to join Wolfert in the 
search. He informed him that much secrecy and caution 
must be observed in enterprises of the kind; that money is 
only to be digged for at night; with certain forms and cere- 
monies ; and burning of drugs ; the repeating of mystic words, 
and above all, that the seekers must first be provided with a 
divining rod, which had the wonderful property of pointing 
to the very spot on the surface of the earth under which treas- 
ure lay hidden. As the doctor had given much of his mind 
to these matters, he charged himself with all the necessary 


462 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


preparations, and, as the quarter of the moon was propitious, 
he undertook to have the divining rod ready by a certain 
night.* 

Wolfert’s heart leaped with joy at having met with so learn- 


ed and able a coadjutor. Every thing went on secretly, but 


* The following note was found appended to this passage in the 
hand-writing of Mr. Knickerbocker. ‘There has been much written 
against the divining rod by those light minds who are ever ready to scoff 
at the mysteries of nature; but I fully join with Dr. Knipperbausen in 
giving it my faith. I shall not insist upon its efficacy in discovering the 
concealment of stolen goods, the boundary stones of fields, the traces 
of robbers and murderers, or even the existence of subterraneous springs 
and streams of water: albeit, I think these properties not to be readily 
discredited; but of its potency in discovering veins of precious metal, 
and hidden sums of money and jewels, I have not the least doubt.- Some 
said that the rod turned only in the hands of persons who had been born 
in particular months of the year; hence astrologers had recourse to 
planetary influence when they would procure a talisman. Others de- 
clared that the properties of the rod were either an effect of chance, or 
the fraud of the holder, or the work of the devil. Thus saith the 
reverend father Gaspard Sebett in his Treatise on Magic; ‘ Propter hee 
et similia argumenta audacter ego promisero vim conversivam virgulz 
bifureatzee nequaquam naturalem esse, sed vel casu vel fraude virgulam 
tractantis vel ope diaboli,’ &c. 

‘“‘Georgius Agricola also was of opinion that it was a mere delusion 
of the devil to inveigle the avaricious and unwary into his clutches, and 
in his treatise ‘de re Metallica,’ lays particular stress on the mysterious 
words pronounced by those persons who employed the divining rod 
during his time. But Imake not a doubt that the divining rod is one 
of those secrets of natural magic, the mystery of which is to be explained 
by the sympathies existing between physical things operated upon by 
the planets, and rendered efficacious by the strong faith of the individ- 
ual. Let the divining rod be properly gathered at the proper time of 
of the moon, cut into the proper form, used with the necessary cerenio- 
nies, and with a perfect faith in its efficacy, and I can confidently recom- 
mend it to my fellow-citizens as an infallible means of discovering the 
places on the Island of the Manhattoes where treasure hath been buried 


in the olden time. 
py Rt” 


WOLFERT WEBBER. 463 


swimmingly. The doctor had many consultations with his 
patient, and the good woman of the household lauded the com- 
forting effect of his visits. In the mean time the wonderful 
divining rod, that great key to nature’s secrets, was duly 
prepared. The doctor had thumbed over all his books of 
knowledge for the occasion ; and the black fisherman was en- 
gaged to take them in his skiff to the scene of enterprise; to 
work with spade and pickaxe in unearthing the treasure; and 
to freight his bark with the weighty spoils they were certain 
of finding. 

At length the appointed night arrived for this perilous un- 
dertaking. Before Wolfert left his home he counselled his 
wife and daughter to go to bed, and feel no alarm if he should 
not return during the night. Like reasonable women, on be- 
ing told not to feel alarm they fell immediately into a panic. 
They saw at once by his manner that something unusual was 
in agitation ; all their fears about the unsettled state of his 
mind were revived with tenfold force: they hung about him, 
entreating him not to expose himself to the night air, but all 
in vain. When once Wolfert was mounted on his hobby, it 
was no easy matter to get him out of the saddle. It was a 
clear starlight night, when he issued out of the portal of the 
Webber palace. He wore a large flapped hat tied under the 
chin with a handkerchief of his daughter’s, to secure him from 
the night damp, while Dame Webber threw her long red 
cloak about his shoulders, and fastened it round his neck. 

The doctor had been no less carefully armed and accou- 
tred by his housekeeper, the vigilant I’rau Ilsy ; and sallied 
forth in his camlet robe by way of surcoat; his black velvet 
cap under his cocked hat, a thick clasped book under his arm, 


464 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


a basket of drugs and dried herbs in one hand, and in the 
other the miraculous rod of divination. 

The great church clock struck ten as Wolfert and the doc- 
tor passed by the church yard, and the watchman bawled in 
hoarse voice a long and doleful “ all’s well!” A deep sleep 
had already fallen upon this primitive little burgh: nothing 
disturbed this awful silence, excepting now and then the bark 
of some profligate night-walking dog, or the serenade of some 
romantic cat. It is true, Wolfert fancied more than once that 
he heard the sound of a stealthy footfall at a distance behind 
them ; but it might have been merely the echo of their own 
steps along the quiet streets. He thought also at one time 
that he saw a tall figure skulking after them—stopping when 
they stopped, and moving on as they proceeded ; but the dim 
and uncertain lamp-light threw such vague gleams and shad- 
ows, that this might all have been mere fancy. 

They found the old fisherman waiting for them, smoking 
his pipe in the stern of the skiff, which was moored just in 
front of his little cabin. A pickaxe and spade were lying in 
the bottom of the boat, with a dark lantern, and a stone bot- 
tle of good Dutch courage, in which honest Sam no doubt 
put even more faith than Dr. Knipperhausen in his drugs. 

Thus then did these three worthies embark in their cockle- 
shell of a skiff upon this nocturnal expedition, with a wisdom 
and valor equalled only by the three wise men of Gotham, 
who adventured to sea in a bowl. The tide was rising and 
running rapidly up the Sound. The current bore them along, 
almost without the aid of an oar. The profile of the town lay 
all in shadow. Here and there a light feebly glimmered 


from some sick chamber, or from the cabin window of some 


WOLFERT WEBBER. 465 


vessel at anchor in the stream. Not a cloud obscured the 
deep starry firmament, the lights of which wavered on the sur- 
face of the placid river; and a shooting meteor, streaking its 
pale course in the very direction they were taking, was inter- 
preted by the doctor into a most propitious omen. 

In a little while they glided by the point of Corlaer’s 
Hook with the rural inn which had been the scene of such 
night adventures. The family had retired to rest, and the 
house was dark and still. Wolfert felt a chill pass over him 
as they passed the point where the buccaneer had disappeared. 
He pointed it out to Dr. Knipperhausen. While regarding 
it, they thought they saw a boat actually lurking at the very 
place; but the shore cast such a shadow over the border of the 
water that they could discern nothing distinctly. They had not 
_ proceeded far when they heard the low sounds of distant oars, 
as if cautiously pulled. Sam plied his oars withredoubled vigor, 
and knowing all the eddies and currents of the stream, soon 
left their followers, if such they were, far astern. In a little 
while they stretched across Turtle bay and Kip’s bay, then 
shrouded themselves in the deep shadows of the Manhattan 
shore, and glided swiftly along, secure from observation. At 
length the negro shot his skiff into a little cove, darkly embow- 
ered by trees, and made it fast to the well-known iron ring. 
They now landed, and lighting the lantern, gathered their 
various implements and proceeded slowly through the bushes. 
Every sound startled them, even that of their own footsteps 
among the dry leaves; and the hooting of a screech owl, from 
the shattered chimney of the neighboring ruin, made their 
blood run cold. 

In spite of all Wolfert’s cauticn in taking note of the land- 


466 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


marks, it was some time before they could find the open place 
among the trees, where the treasure was supposed to be bur- 
ied. At length they came to the ledge of rock; and on ex- 
amining its surface by the aid of the lantern, Wolfert recog- 
nized the three mystic crosses. Their hearts beat quick, for 
the momentous trial was at hand that was to determine their 
hopes. 

The lantern was now held by Wolfert Webber, while the 
doctor produced the divining rod. It was a forked twig, one 
end of which was grasped firmly in each hand, while the cen- 
tre, forming the stem, pointed perpendicularly upwards. 
The doctor moved this wand about, within a certain distance 
of the earth, from place to place, but for some time without 
any effect, while Wolfert kept the light of the lantern turned 
full upon it, and watched it with the most breathless interest. 
At length the rod began slowly to turn. The doctor grasped 
it with greater earnestness, his hands trembling with the agi- 
tation of his mind. The wand continued to turn gradually, 
until at length the stem had reversed its position, and pointed 
perpendicularly downward, and remained pointing to one spot 
as fixedly as the needle to the pole. 

“This is the spot!” said the doctor, in an almost inaud- 
ible tone. 

Wolfert’s heart was in his throat. 

“Shall I dig?” said the negro, grasping the spade. 

“ Pots tausends, no !” replied the little doctor, hastily. 
He now ordered his companions to keep close by him, and to 
maintain the most inflexible silence. That certain precautions 
must be taken and ceremonies used to prevent the evil spirits 


which kept about buried treasure from doing them any harm. 


WOLFERT WEBBER. 467 


He then drew a circle about the place, enough to include the 
whole party. He next gathered dry twigs and leaves and 
made a fire, upon which he threw certain drugs and dried 
herbs which he had brought in his basket. A thick smoke 
rose, diffusing a potent odor, savoring marvellously of brimstone 
and assafcetida, which, however grateful it might be to the ol- 
factory nerves of spirits, nearly strangled poor Wolfert, and 
produced a fit of coughing and wheezing that made the whole 
grove resound. Dr. Knipperhausen then unclasped the vol- 
ume which he had brought under his arm, which was printed 
in red and black characters in German text. While Wolfert 
held the lantern, the doctor, by the aid of his spectacles, read 
off several forms of conjuration in Latin and German. He 
then ordered Sam to seize the pickaxe and proceed to work. 
The close-bound soil gave obstinate signs of not having been 
disturbed for many a year. After having picked his way 
through the surface, Sam came to a bed of sand and gravel, 
which he threw briskly to right and left with the spade. 

“ Wark!” said Wolfert, who fancied he heard a trampling 
among the dry leaves, and a rustling through the bushes. 
Sam paused for a moment, and they listened. No footstep 
wasnear. The bat flitted by them in silence ; a bird, roused from 
its roost by the light which glared up among the trees, flew 
circling about the flame. In the profound stillness of the 
woodland, they could distinguish the current rippling along 
the rocky shore, and the distant murmuring and roaring of 
Hell-gate. 

The negro continued his labors, and had already digged a 
considerable hole. The doctor stood on the edge, reading for- 


mule every now and then from his black-letter volume, or 


468 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


throwing more drugs and herbs upon the fire; while Wol- 
fert bent anxiously over the pit, watching every stroke of the 
spade. Any one witnessing the scene thus lighted up by fire, 
lantern, and the reflection of Wolfert’s red mantle, might 
have mistaken the little doctor for some foul magician, busied 
in his incantations, and the grizzly-headed negro for some 
swart goblin, obedient to his commands. 

At length the spade of the fisherman struck upon some. 
thing that sounded hollow. The sound vibrated to Wolfert’s 
heart. He struck his spade again.— 

“°Tis a chest,” said Sam. 

“Full of gold, Pll warrant it!” cried Wolfert, clasping 
his hands with rapture. 

Scarcely had he uttered the words when a sound from 
above caught his ear. He cast up his eyes, and lo! by the ex- 
piring light of the fire he beheld, just over the disk of the rock, 
what appeared to be the grim visage of the drowned bucca- 
neer, grinning hideously down upon him. 

Wolfert gave a loud cry, and let fall the lantern. His 
panic communicated itself to hiscompanions. The negro leap- 
ed out of the hole; the doctor dropped his book and basket, 
and began to pray in German. All was horror and confusion. 
The fire was scattered about, the lantern extinguished. In 
their hurry-scurry they ran against and confounded one an- 
other. They fancied a legion of hobgoblins let loose upon 
them, and that they saw, by the fitful gleams of the scattered 
embers, strange figures, in red caps, gibbering and ramping 
around thei. The doctor ran one way, the negro another, 
and Wolfert made for the water side. As he plunged strug- 
gling onwards through brush and brake, he heard the tread of 


WOLFERT WEBBER. 469 


some one in pursuit. He scrambled frantically forward. 
The footsteps gained upon him. He felt himself grasped by 
his cloak, when suddenly his pursuer was attacked in turn: a 
fierce fight and struggle ensued—a pistol was discharged that 
lit up rock and bush for a second, and showed two figures grap- 
pling together—all was then darker than ever. The contest 
continued—the combatants clinched each other, and panted, 
and groaned, and rolled among the rocks. There was snarling 
and growling as of a cur, mingled with curses, in which Wol- 
fert fancied he could recognize the voice of the buccaneer. 
He would fain have fled, but he was on the brink of a pre- 
cipice, and could go no further. 

Again the parties were on their feet; again there was a 
tugging and struggling, as if strength alone could decide the 
combat, until one was precipitated from the brow of the cliff, 
and sent headlong into the deep stream that whirled below. 
Wolfert heard the plunge, and a kind of strangling, bubbling 
murmur, but the darkness of the night hid every thing from 
him, and the swiftness of the current swept every thing in- 
stantly out of hearing. One of the combatants was disposed 
of, but whether friend or foe, Wolfert could not tell, nor 
whether they might not both be foes. He heard the survivor 
approach, and his terror revived. He saw, where the profile 
of the rocks rose against the horizon, a human form advane- 
ing. He could not be mistaken: it must be the buccaneer. 
Whither should he fly !—a precipice was on one side—a mur- 
derer on the other. The enemy approached—he was close at 
hand. Wolfert attempted to let himself down the face of the 
cliff, His cloak caught in a thorn that grew on the edge. 
He was aa from off his feet, and held dangling in the 


4:70 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


air, half-choked by the string with which his careful wife had 
fastened the garment around his neck. Wolfert thought his 
last moment was arrived ; already had he committed his soul 
to St. Nicholas, when the string broke, and he tumbled down 
the bank, bumping from rock to rock, and bush to bush, and 
leaving the red cloak fluttering like a bloody banner in the air. 

It was a long while before Wolfert came to himsellt. 
When he opened his eyes, the ruddy streaks of morning were 
already shooting up the sky. He found himself grievously 
battered, and lying in the bottom of a boat. He attempted 
to sit up, but was too sore and stiff to move. A voice re 
quested him in friendly accents to lie still. He turned his eyes 
towards the speaker: it was Dirk Waldron. He had dog- 
ged the party, at the earnest request of Dame Webber and 
her daughter, who with the laudable curiosity of their sex, 
had pried into the secret consultations of Wolfért and the 
doctor. Dirk had been completely distanced in following 
the light skiff of the fisherman, and had just come in to rescue 
the poor money-digger from his pursuer. 

Thus ended this perilous enterprise. The doctor and 
Black Sam severally found their way back to the Manhattoes, 
each having some dreadful tale of peril to relate. As to poor 
Wolfert, instead of returning in triumph laden with bags of 
gold, he was borne home on a shutter, followed by a rabble- 
rout of curious urchins. His wife and daughter saw the dis- 
mal pageant from a distance, and alarmed the neighborhood 
with their cries: they thought the poor man had suddenly 
settled the great debt of nature in one of his wayward moods. 
Finding him, however still living, they had him speedily to 


bed, and a jury of old matrons of the neighborhood assem- 


WOLFERT WEBBER. 471 


bled, to determine how he should be doctored. The whole 
town was in a buzz with the story of the money-diggers. 
Many repaired to the scene of the previous night’s adven- 
tures: but though they found the very place of the digging, 
they discovered nothing that compensated them for their trou- 
ble. Some say they found the fragments of an oaken chest, 
and an iron pot-lid, which savored strongly of hidden money ; 
and that in the old family vault there were traces of bales and 
boxes, but this is all very dubious. 

In fact, the secret of all this story has never to this day 
been discovered: whether any treasure were ever actually 
buried at that place; whether, if so, it were carried off at 
night by those who had buried it; or whether it still remains 
there under the guardianship of gnomes and spirits until it 
shall be properly sought for, is all matter of conjecture. For 
my part I incline to the latter opinion; and make no doubt 
that great sums lie buried, both there and in other parts of 
this island and its neighborhood, ever since the times of the 
buccaneers and the Dutch colonists ; and I would earnestly rec- 
ommend the search after them to such of my fellow-citizens 
as are not engaged in any other speculations. 

There were many conjectures formed, also, as to who and 
what was the strange man of the seas who had domineered 
over the little fraternity at Corlaer’s Hook for a time; disap- 
peared so strangely, and reappeared so fearfully. Some sup- 
posed him a smuggler stationed at that place to assist his com- 
rades in landing their goods among the rocky coves of the 
island. Others, that he was one of the ancient comrades of 
Kidd or Bradish, returned to convey away treasures formerly 
hidden in the vicinity.. The only circumstance that throws 


472 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


any thing like a vague light on this mysterious matter, is a re- 
port which prevailed of a strange foreign-built shallop, with 
much the look of a picaroon, having been seen hovering about 
the Scund for several days without landing or reporting her- 
self, though boats were seen going to and from her at night: 
and that she was seen standing out of the mouth of the har- 
bor, in the gray of the dawn after the catastrophe of the 
money-diggers. 

I must not omit to mention another report, also, which I 
confess is rather apocryphal, of the buccaneer, who was sup- 
posed to have been drowned, being seen before daybreak, 
with a lantern in his hand, seated astride of his great sea-chest, 
and sailing through Hell-gate, which just then began to roar 
and bellow with redoubled fury. 

While all the gossip world was thus filled with talk and 
rumor, poor Wolfert lay sick and sorrowful in his bed, bruised 
in body and sorely beaten down in mind. His wife and 
daughter did all they could to bind up his wounds, both cor- 
poral and spiritual. The good old dame never stirred from 
his bedside, where she sat knitting from morning till night; 
while his daughter busied herself about him with the fondest 
care. Nor did they lack assistance from abroad. Whatever 
may be said of the desertion of friends in distress, they had 
no complaint of the kind to make. Not an old wife of the 
neighborhood but abandoned her work to crowd to the mansion 
of Wolfert Webber, to inquire after his health, and the particu- 
lars of his story. Not one came moreover without her little 
pipkin of pennyroyal, sage, balm, or other herb tea, delighted 
at an opportunity of signalizing her kindness and her doctor- 
ship. What drenchings did not the poor Wolfert undergo, 


WOLFERT WEBBER. 473 


and all in vain! It was a moving sight to behold him wast- 
ing away day by day; growing thinner and thinner, and 
ghastlier and ghastlier, and staring with rueful visage from 
under an old patchwork counterpane, upon the jury of ma- 
trons. kindly assembled to sigh and groan and look unhappy 
around him. 

Dirk Waldron was the only being that seemed to shed a 
ray of sunshine into this house of mourning. He came in 
with cheery look and manly spirit, and tried to reanimate the 
expiring heart of the poor money-digger, but it was all in 
vain. Wolfert was completely done over. If any thing was 
wanting to complete his despair, it was a notice served upon 
him in the midst of his distress, that the corporation were 
about to run a new street through the very centre of his cab- 
bage garden. He now saw nothing before him but poverty 
and ruin; his last reliance, the garden of his forefathers, was 
to be laid waste, and what then was to become of his poor 
wife and child ? 

His eyes filled with tears as they followed the dutiful Amy 
out of the room one morning. Dirk Waldron was seated be- 
side him; Wolfert grasped his hand, pointed after his daugh- 
ter, and for the first time since his illness, broke the silence 
he had maintained. 

“Tam going!” said he, shaking his head feebly, “ and 
when I am gone—my poor daughter——” 

“Leave her to me, father!” said Dirk, manfully— Pll 
take care of her!” 

Wolfert looked up in the face of the cheery, strapping 
youngster, and saw there was none better able to take care of 


& woman. 


474 . TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


“ Enough,” said he—“ she is yours !—and now fetch me a 
Jawyer—let me make my will and die.” 

The lawyer was brought—a dapper, bustling, round-head- 
ed little man, Roorback (or Rollebuck as it was pronounced) 
by name. At the sight of him the women broke into loud 
lamentations, for they looked upon the signing of a will as 
the signing of a death warrant. Wolfert made a feeble mo- 
tion for them to be silent. Poor Amy buried her face and 
her grief in the bed curtain. Dame Webber resumed her 
knitting to hide her distress, which betrayed itself however in 
a pellucid tear, which trickled silently down, and hung ai the 
end of her peaked nose; while the cat, the only unconcerned 
member of the family, played with the good dame’s ball of 
worsted, as it rolled about the floor. 

Wolfert lay on his back, his night-cap drawn over his fore- 
head; his eyes closed; his whole visage the picture of 
death. He begged the lawyer to be brief, for he felt his end 
approaching, and that he had no time to lose. The lawyer 
nibbed his pen, spread out his paper, and prepared to write. 

“T give and bequeath,” said Wolfert, faintly, “my small 


9 


farm 
“ W hat—all !”’ exclaimed the lawyer. 
Wolfert half opened his eyes and looked upon the lawyer. 
“ Yes—all,” said he. 
“ What! all that great patch of land with canoe and 


sun-flowers, which the corporation is just going to run a main 


street through ?” 
“'The same,” said Wolfert, with a heavy sigh, and sinking 
back upon his pillow. 


WOLFERT WEBBER. 475 


“TI wish him joy that inherits it!” said the little lawyer, 
chuckling, and rubbing his hands involuntarily. 

“What do you mean?” said Wolfert, again opening his 
eyes. 

“That he’ll be one of the richest men in the place!” cried 
little Rollebuck. 

The expiring Wolfert seemed to step back from the thresh- 
old of existence: his eyes again lighted up; he raised him- 
self in his bed, shoved back his red worsted night cap, and 
stared broadly at the lawyer. 

“ You don’t say so!” exclaimed he. 

“ Faith, but I do!” rejoined the other. “ Why, when that 
"great field and that huge meadow come to be laid out in 
streets, and cut up into snug building lots—why, whoever 
owns it need not pull off his hat to the patroon ! ” 

“Say you so?” cried Wolfert, half thrusting one leg out 
of bed, “ why, then I think [ll not make my will yet!” 

To the surprise of every body the dying man actually re- 
covered. ‘The vital spark, which had glimmered faintly in the 
socket, received fresh fuel from the oil of gladness, which the 
little lawyer poured into his soul. It once more burnt up in- 
to a flame. 

Give physic to the heart, ye who would revive the body 
of a spirit-broken man! In a few days Wolfert left his room ; 
in afew days more his table was covered with deeds, plans of 
streets, and building lots. Little Rollebuck was constantly with 
him, his right-hand man and adviser ; and instead of making his 
will, assisted in the more agreeable task of making his for- 
tune. In fact Wolfert Webber was one of those worthy Dutch 
burghers of the Manhattoes whose fortunes have been made, 


476 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 


in a manner, in spite of themselves; who have tenaciously 
held on to their hereditary acres, raising turnips and cabbages 
about the skirts of the city, hardly able to make both ends 
meet, until the corporation has cruelly driven streets through 
their abodes, and they have suddenly awakened out of their 
lethargy, and, to their astonishment, found themselves rich 
men. 

Before many months had elapsed, a great bustling street 

passed through the very centre of the Webber garden, just 
where Wolfert had dreamed of finding a treasure. His golden 
dream was accomplished ; he did indeed find an unlooked-for 
source of wealth; for, when his paternal lands were distrib- 
uted into building lots, and rented out to safe tenants, in- 
stead of producing a paltry crop of cabbages, they returned 
him an abundant crop of rent ; insomuch that on quarter-day, 
it was a goodly sight to see his tenants knocking at the door, 
from morning till night, each with a little round-bellied bag 
of money, a golden produce of the soil. 
The ancient mansion of his forefathers was still kept up ; 
but instead of being a little yellow-fronted Dutch house in a 
garden, it now stood boldly in the midst of a street, the 
grand home of the neighborhood ; for Wolfert enlarged it with 
a wing on each side, and a cupola or tearoom on top, where he 
might climb up and smoke his pipe in hot weather; and in the 
course of time the whole mansion was overrun by the chubby- 
faced progeny of Amy Webber and Dirk Waldron. 

As Wolfert waxed old, and rich, and corpulent, he also 
set up a great ginger-bread colored carriage, drawn by a pair 
of black Flanders mares, with tails that swept the ground ; 


[ and to commemorate the origin of his greatness, he had for 


WOLFERT WEBBER. ATT 


his crest, a full blown cabbage painted on the pannels, with 
the pithy motto Alles Hopf, that is to say, ALL HEAD; mean- 
ing thereby that he had risen by sheer head-work. 


; 
| 


= 


To fill the measure of his greatness, in the fulness of time 
the renowned Ramm Rapelye slept with his fathers, and Wol- 
fert Webber succeeded to the leather-bottomed arm-chair, in 
the inn parlor at Corlaer’s Hook; where he long reigned 
greatly honored and respected, insomuch that he was never 
known to tell a story without its being believed, nor to utter 
a joke without its being laughed at. 


THE END. 


NOV4 1939 
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